The King of the Wasteland
by Averichollie
Summary: Three men look out into the Abyss, arguing over which star they should blow up first.
1. Prologue

Story by Aycinth

Characters by Aycinth, Copczin, Kyle273, Averichollie

Written by Averichollie

Sound design by Copczin

* * *

_What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow _

_Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, _

_You cannot say or guess, for you know only _

_A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, _

_And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, _

_And the dry stone no sound of water. Only _

_There is shadow under this red rock, _

_(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), _

_And I will show you something different from either _

_Your shadow at morning striding behind you _

_Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; _

_I will show you fear in a handful of dust. _

~T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (1922)

* * *

_This place sucks. _

~Captain J. Ryan, 466 regiment 12th PDF, 40768

* * *

This story starts with a pool.

The thunder rumbled overhead, but the air was hot and humid, and there would be no rain tonight. Water lapped up against the rock, the pool was kept fed by means of labour, of pumps and miles upon miles of pipes. The fish drank it greedily and unthinkingly; men had died to bring it there.

A man sat alongside the pool, catching the fish gently and looking them over. His feet were bare, and his skin was pale. His shorts were tan, but for those who knew where to look they had a small bird stitched in green along the cuff.

He was wearing a button-down olive shirt, but he had not buttoned the top three buttons. There was a bit of rough twine around his neck, and a heavy silvery ring hung from the twine, set with a bit of carved crysophrase.

He was thin, the sort of thin that only comes with illness, and his face was narrow and angular.

The cherry trees shuffled overhead in the uncertain wind, carrying with it the smell of electricity and rain, but it was a dry wind.

The plants suffered. The water level drooped, replenished by straining pumps. Somewhere, a cicada was chirping.

The fish were silvery green, white, black. They had scales like dragonfish, they had long delicate fins like butterflies, and the man caught them gently, picked the parasites from their scales, fed them, and let them go.

"How long have you been there?" he asked, not looking up.

"Just a few moments," the woman told him. She was short, thin, with a face like a cat's and hair cut in a sharp, angular bob. "Sir…"

"What?"

"It's time."

He released his latest fish, a mint green creature with white streaks curling along its gills. "Shall I at least set the pond in order?" he asked. "Raymond knows nothing about koi."

She twisted her hands together. "Hurry up, please, it's time."

He checked his wrist-mounted chrono. "So it is. Let me dry my feet, eh?"

* * *

He'd never liked Scintilla Prime. The space station hovered in geosynchronous orbit over the Scintillan city of Tarsus, and was shaped like a cross between a cathedral and a sea-star, all limbs and docking stations ready to receive merchant ships. It was, the man thought with irritation, needlessly ornate.

Here, it wasn't though. Here, it smelt of sweat and heat and human, and the PA system was harsh-sounding as it delivered docking information, departure and delivery times, and the like. Merchants and workers scurried along nearby like so many lava-ants* across the scuffed metal floors. Four people had so far tried to pickpocket him.

He'd once looked at the numbers, the amount of traffic in and out of the station. Scintilla was the capital world of Calixis**, home to billions of souls, and even more people.

Seventy thousand tonnes of iron passed through this station per day. Something in the neighbourhood of two hundred billion cases of ammunition were shipped out through the rest of Calixis from here. Twelve thousand jars of marmalade entered Scintilla per day. He liked marmalade.

"My name is DeMoss," he grinned at the lady behind the information desk. "I'm here to board the _Salieri's Shadow_."

She chewed on her tongue, looking down the line of names on her dataslate. "_Salieri's Shadow_?"

"Yes."

"May I have some proof of identity?"

He fished his wallet out of his pocket and passed it to her.

"Mm," she grunted, not looking at it. "Bay twelve, that way," she pointed. "You're late."

"Late?" he asked, smiling winningly, "or early?"

"Sign here," she passed him a datapad.

* * *

*Like fire ants, only stickier

**A sector of imperial space


	2. Chapter 1: Shadow

**A/N: I wanted to get the first actual chapter on the internet. From now on, story updates will be more spread out (one a month) to give me more time to write ahead. **

Starring Charles Dance as Salieri

* * *

The Imperial Firestorm-class frigate _Salieri's Shadow,_ small compared to the cruisers and battleships of the Imperial Navy, was nevertheless an enormous affair, all arches and hallways and the occasional atrium. DeMoss had been shown his quarters. Various unseen servants had already packed away all his things, and though the living space was rather smaller than his chambers in his home on Scintilla, it was more than adequate. It consisted of an opulent two-room apartment draped in black velvet and silk with the occasional gold trim. It was hideously luxurious, he decided. And all the black hurt his eyes. He checked that his bags had been delivered and then opened the door. It was time to explore.

About a half an hour later, DeMoss realised that the _Salieri's Shadow_ had a very definite colour scheme to it. Everything was an ornate, lacquered black accented with aged gold. He also realised that the _Salieri's Shadow_ was _enormous_, larger than it had seemed even from the outside. And it was packed with ship hands scurrying about their business.

He took a few extra minutes to ensure that all the relevant paperwork would be delivered to his quarters before heading up to meet the Lord Captain. This was going to take some getting used to.

Along the way, he ran through the information he'd gathered in his head. The _Salieri's Shadow_ was an ancestral holding of the Salieri family. The Salieris were a large and wealthy family based out of the planet Malfi*, though they had no titles. The current patriarch, Scipio Salieri, had inherited a Warrant of Trade, which entitled him to a ship and an Imperial mandate to explore and exploit the distant reaches of the galaxy for the glory of Mankind.

They were also one of the most feared mafia families on Malfi. DeMoss smiled as he stepped onto the bridge. This was going to be _interesting_.

The bridge was expansive. At the Navigator's station sat a heavyset man with a greyish pallor, his tell-tale Navigator's headband holding back a wave of greasy hair. There were a few men at the Auger† arrays, and someone operating a Cogitator‡. Against the walls stood enormous banners bearing what DeMoss assumed was the Salieri family crest, a black and gold four-pointed star-shape that reminded him of a compass rose. Set into the centre of the star was a golden gear bearing a black capital S.

That probably explained some things.

The centrepiece to the entire place, though, was the Captain's Chair.

It stood like a burnished throne atop a black marble dais, high above the other stations. The arms, the back were wrought in more needlessly ornate patterns, knobs and little fleur-de-lis patterns, or, rather, curls of black metal that looked like fleur-de-lis. A humourless-looking man occupied it, with what looked to be a perpetual frown on his face.

DeMoss approached the man in the captain's chair. "DeMoss at your service, Lord Captain."

There was a slight pause as the two looked him over. DeMoss looked to be in his early thirties. He was almost six and a half feet in height, and nearly as broad about the shoulders. He should have been a large man, but he was thin almost to the point of being sickly. His eyes were a storm-coloured grey. His clothes were rather minimalist, but something about the way the coat in particular fit about DeMoss's shoulders hinted that it was far more expensive than it looked§, in an "I'm rich enough to afford this, and stylish enough to wear it" sort of way.

Salieri, on the other hand – for it could only be he – looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, which meant he was anywhere from forty to a hundred and fifty. His hair was black tending to silver along the edges, and brushed strictly back, and his eyes were an icy blue that was almost luminous‖. His suit was black, his shirt white and well-pressed, and his face bore an expression that, while not outright disapproving, was not impressed.

"Might this be the new Seneschal, I wonder?" Salieri spoke slowly, like a statesman. His words were clipped, but clear. He enunciated, managing to convey both mood and tone in a voice that held little of either, and his speech was sprinkled liberally with meaningful pauses.

"Yes, Lord Captain. I think that you will find that I am quite skilled in the arts of finance and commerce."

"Indeed," the Captain said dismissively. "And what of your combat experience? Can you wield a monosword, or put a bolter round in a moving target?"

DeMoss thought for a moment. "I'm no good with a sword, Lord Captain, but I'm proficient with most basic weapons and pistols, and I'm a fine shot with a sniper's rifle."

"I suppose that will do," Salieri nodded. "Welcome to _Salieri's Shadow, '_DeMoss'". The Rogue Trader paused meaningfully.

DeMoss stared into the visor of Salieri's helmet unblinkingly. He'd seen no need to provide a given name before, and saw no need to provide one now¶.

Partway through their miniature staring contest, a stoutish man entered the bridge, flipping through some papers. "Salieri, I wanted to – oh, hello."

Salieri nodded at the newcomer, but gestured to include the entire bridge. "This is my bridge crew. I am the Lord Captain Scipio Salieri, and this is my associate, and the other permanent Bridge officer, the Deacon Manuellus Panhominae."

Panhominae smiled and nodded. He was the shortest of the trio, but also the broadest. He also looked to be in his mid forties or fifties, and was heavily built. He put DeMoss in mind of a barrel. His beard was dark, but shot through with bits of grey, and his hair was salt-and-pepper. His skin was a warm, tanned colour. His eyes, though, were a bright green, warm and friendly, but sharp like little flames. He was dressed in a black button-down shirt and black trousers, with the little white rectangle in his collar that indicated a member of the Emperor's clergy.

He stepped forward and held out his hand, and DeMoss was pleased to find that he had a firm grip.

"Interesting name," said DeMoss as he shook hands with the missionary, heedless of the irony. "I am DeMoss."

"Pleased to meet you," Manuellus said in a gruff but friendly voice. "I look forward to working with you."

"Have you been assigned your quarters?" Salieri asked.

"Yes, Lord Captain," said DeMoss. "They are more than adequate."

Salieri looked over a dataslate briefly. "And these mercenaries you've brought with you, what of them?" he asked without looking up.

DeMoss smiled, and there was a strange edge to it. "All fifty of them are housed quite comfortably. What is our destination?"

"Thical," said Salieri. "My Warrant of Trade places me in command of a legion of Thicali soldiers. We're going to retrieve them."

DeMoss nodded. "Well, that sounds exciting. I suppose then that my first task will be to arrange matters so that these Thicali have sufficient food, supplies, and places to stay."

"Of course," said the deacon. "That's what gave Scipio the idea to hire you to begin with."

"Indeed," said DeMoss. "And now, by your leave," he made a short little half-bow, "I have much to do."

* * *

DeMoss was one of those sorts of people who got bored easily. To most, this would beg the question of why he was a Seneschal of all things, the sort of job title given to a glorified accountant. The thing that most people would fail to take into account was that DeMoss was good with numbers.

Really, really good.

He was not the sort of man who could tell you the day of the week on October Fifteenth, in the year 39775. That was the sort of skill reserved for the more particular sort of savant. No, DeMoss' skill was of a more analogue sort. He understood numbers on an intuitive level, could see their relations to one another, could track their positions in his head. And he was really good, though not perfect, at mental math.

Reading through Salieri's financial records was the most tedious part of his job, but it was one that he, in his own way, enjoyed. It was almost spatial for him; he could take a piece of data and assign it a location, so that it would be there if he reached for it again. This was the way he kept track of lots of numbers at once.

In his head, a web was forming. Connections were glowing threads that connected bits of information, stretching from one number to the next. From the threads, he wove for himself a shape, a flow of money and resources and time.

And it was incomplete. DeMoss took a breath and waved his hand, as if dismissing the structure.

He sighed and stood. His office was a rather cold-looking Spartan area, all brushed-metal and steel-blues. One wall was littered with an odd tetris-structure of cardboard boxes, the stuff he hadn't gotten round to moving in.

He walked back into his desk and scribbled a short note to Salieri in his odd, rounded sort of scribble, addressed it, and stuck it in his outbox.

He could continue unpacking, but, really, where was the fun in that? And there were the mysterious barracks to find, crewmen to annoy, and creepy abandoned corridors to explore. He set off.

DeMoss' office was just below the main atrium, a huge structure used by officers and crew alike, and the major dividing line between the spacious, airy upper-ship and the cramped underbelly**. At one end, there was an enormous stained-glass image of the Saint Drusus looking proudly into the unknown. At the other, a vast set of black-marble stairs. Salieri, or, more likely, an ancestor, had a certain style*†.

The steps led up to the bridge. Salieri was not in the Captain's seat just then, but the Navigator, a greasy, overweight man with a pale, oily sheen to his skin was sitting at his station concentrating. DeMoss walked up the dais, trailing his fingers along the metal rail as he went along till he reached the Captain's Chair itself.

It was a wide, gilded sort of thing, almost a throne. The lines of the room, the curve of the walls all brought the eye to this point. The seats were done in real black leather and sable fur, and there were a set of crystalline buttons along the gilded edge of the seat, no doubt various command functions right and necessary for the Lord-Captain to carry out his function aboard ship. DeMoss liked to think that at least one of them activated the massage function.

He ran his fingers along the edges of it, relishing the feel of the ancient leather in his hands. Seized by a sudden impulse, he sat in the chair, leaning back and rolling his head along the headrest.

He licked his lips, drumming idle fingers along the arm of the chair.

The Navigator paused to give him an odd look, one that he banished with a suddenly imperious and haughty glare.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Damn. DeMoss spun the chair around to face Salieri, more than a little pleased that it swivelled without protest. "I certainly see why you like it so," he replied smoothly.

The Rogue Trader pressed his lips together. "Generations of Salieris have enjoyed that seat."

There was a very slight emphasis on the word 'Salieris'.

DeMoss licked his lips, considering. "It wouldn't fit quite anyone. I imagine a lesser man would look quite foolish, sitting here."

Salieri gave him a loaded sort of look. "Indeed."

DeMoss cracked a smile. "Don't fear for your seat, Lord Captain. I was simply keeping it warm for you. I fear I look quite foolish here as well."

Salieri's brows lowered a fraction of an inch, and DeMoss resolved to be more subtle from then on. He stood. "Irregardless*‡, it looks a good deal more comfortable than it is. It deserves the sort of man who knows how to sit in it, the sort of man who knows what all the little buttons do. I much prefer my office."

"Is there a reason you've decided to try my chair?"

"As a matter of fact," said DeMoss, "I was looking for you. It seems I'm missing key records and pieces of financial data."

"I ordered all the relevant information sent into your inbox," Salieri said.

"Then we have something of a problem, do we not?" asked DeMoss, circling around behind the chair. "My inbox does not contain all the relevant information."

Salieri appeared to consider for a few moments, then turned. "We will continue this discussion in my office," he said.

* * *

Salieri's office was everything DeMoss' was not. It was spacious yet cosy, with ebony wood-panelling and a wide black desk. There was what looked to be a fireplace in the back. A painting hung over the fireplace, an image of Lord Solar Macharius*§ at the helm of his ship.

DeMoss was one who prided himself on his ability to read other people, to know and understand them via peripheral cues, the odd turn of phrase, slight emphases on key words. Something in his head told him that, to Salieri, the picture of Macharius was important.

Salieri sat behind his desk, gesturing to one or both of the seats arrayed in front of his desk. "Take a seat, DeMoss. Either seat. I believe they are equally comfortable."

DeMoss did not take a seat. "Nice place," he said, scuffing at the black silky rug on the floor. "I like the fireplace."

"As do I," Salieri said dryly.

Salieri's desk was smooth with a nicely glossy finish. There was a globe on his desk, probably Malfi judging from the enormous city sprawl, and a map of the galaxy on the wall opposite the fireplace.

There was also a chess board on the desk, pushed off to one side as if forgotten. The squares looked to be of alternating colours of glass, and the pieces were black and white marble, partway through their little war. DeMoss picked up the white queen and tossed it idly up and down. "Do you play?" he asked.

"Put that back," said Salieri sharply. DeMoss put his hands up and complied with exaggerated motions, even going so far as to puff on the surface of the queen and buff it slightly.

Then he sat down in the leftmost seat.

He glanced over at the board again, and then licked his lips. "Which are you?" he asked.

"Hmm?"

"It's not mate," said DeMoss, "not even close. It's a game, right? You're playing someone aboard the _Shadow_."

Salieri looked at him for a moment, as was fast becoming usual, and then his lips quirked into something that could have been the tiniest bit amused. "White," he said. "An acquaintance from Malfi controls the black pieces."

DeMoss nodded. "It's one of those games, eh? Mail-order moves?"

"Yes," said Salieri.

"Good job," said DeMoss. "There's a name for that, where you put them in check with the bishop in five moves, right?"

"Indeed," said Salieri, sliding the board so it sat sideways in front of him. "I take it you play."

"Oh no," DeMoss shook his head quickly. "I'm no good."

"A good many prodigies and idiots have said that," Salieri observed placidly, staring at the arrangement. "I believe you wanted to talk to me about more than my office and my game."

"I wanted to talk about me," said DeMoss. "So you'd know the nature of my skills and how to make use of them. I'm a Seneschal. I look at an opponent and give you probabilities. I look at a board and give you every possible move. Black Queen to queen two. Bishop to queen two. Knight to queen two. I'd use the knight, personally, since it's a weaker piece and I don't mind scuppering it."

"You've just trapped your own bishop."

"Whatever. I'm rubbish at chess. My point is that I'm not what you'd call a strategist. I can see move combinations, I can give you choices. But I'm not a leader - I don't tell you what we _should_ do, only what we _can_. And though I _can _put a bolter round through a moving target, that's not my primary utility."

"If not a leader or a strategist or a mercenary, what _are_ you, then?"

DeMoss leant back, stretching his fingers. "A Seneschal." He smirked. "See, I'm the man who knows when he's not getting all the data he needs. I require access to _everything_ if I'm to do my job, and I'm frankly irritated that you're playing these games with me."

"You _have_ access," said Salieri. "I am a busy man, DeMoss. If you've a substantial complaint, then you may make it."

"There is substance to my complaint," said DeMoss. "If I were an Arbites plant, I would have sold you out before we left Scintilla. There is no reason for such caution. It's subtle, but there are gaping holes in my information."

Salieri pressed his lips together. "Can you not complete your assessment with the records you have access to?"

"No," said DeMoss patiently. "That's like asking if I can paint a picture of your sister from an image of the back of her head. I need a complete picture."

"Oh?"

DeMoss drew a blank sheet of paper from Salieri's desk. "Look," he said. "This will be from memory, so it may be inaccurate."

He began to sketch, drawing the web from his mind. Of course, unless he was actively concentrating on it, the threads dissipated and the numbers went away. But he had a good memory.

"The Salieri family fortune," he said as he drew, "is complex. It looks like someone was purposefully hiding some of it from anyone who would come after, laundering it through various sources here and here. But you see, you're generating money through these, these are assets. And I think you _may_ be terribly in debt. But I can't tell unless I can see where _this_ is coming from, see?"

Demoss tapped the quill on a thin line, Salieri's eyes drifted, as he followed it to the edge of the page, and beyond. "How long did it take you to realise the records were incomplete?" he asked.

"Oh, as soon as I read the data, it was obvious."

Salieri wrote something down on a piece of paper. "I'll see that you receive all the information you require," he said. "Show me what you can do with it."

"Thank you, Lord Captain."

"Now," said Salieri, "unless there is anything else you require…"

"No, sir," said DeMoss, standing up. "Wait. Actually, have you any idea where that Missionary spends his time?"

Salieri considered a moment, frowning. Manuellus' habits were his own, and if he wasn't in the chapel or the medical bay*‖, he could be anywhere on the ship.

The Lord Captain reached across the desk and pulled his dataslate from atop a neat pile of papers, tapped Manuellus' information into it, and with a tiny _ping_ the information was sent.

Then the two men sat, waiting for the return ping, but none came. Salieri eventually began going through his paperwork. DeMoss sat, a slight frown on his face.

DeMoss chewed on his lips, first the bottom one, and then the top. "Did you lose your priest?" he asked.

Salieri shot DeMoss a Look. "I know _precisely_ where he is." The Rogue Trader picked up the dataslate and tapped at it a moment.

A schematic diagram of the ship was traced out in thin blue lines on the surface of the slate. "Here," the Rogue Trader tapped at an inconspicuous room near the rear of the _Salieri's Shadow_, one deck below the rear chapel.

"That's his office?" asked DeMoss.

Salieri raised an eyebrow, but did not respond, busily working through his pile of paperwork.

* * *

*Second most important planet in the Calixis Sector, narrowly beaten out by Scintilla as the capital planet of Calixis, and still somewhat bitter about it.

†Read: sensors. They scan the environment and deliver detailed data used to pilot the ship and decide on the next course of action

‡Before the Age of the Emperor, when Man was still bound to but a single world, these were known as _Computers_.

§Half the design budget had gone into ways to make the coat look more expensive than it looked. If this makes no sense to you, then you have some inkling of the sorts of minds that designed DeMoss's wardrobe. The other half of the design budget had gone into ways to make the coat look more expensive than your coat. There wasn't another coat quite like it in the entire Imperium, because the only sorts of people who wanted it were either people who couldn't afford it, or DeMoss. To call it _douchy_ was a severe insult; the coat had turned rich, smug asshole into an art form.

‖They were, in fact, luminous. Salieri had had a few modifications to his ocular structure.

¶Let the record show that DeMoss had already decided to see how long it would take him to twist 'Lord-Captain' into an insult. Salieri, in turn, had already mentally christened the Seneschal "DeMoose".

Document that denotes someone a "Rogue Trader", who has Imperial permission to deal with aliens (xenos). Most others would be shot on the spot.

**There was probably a hidden insult in there somewhere.

*†Ships tend to be ancestral holdings.

*‡This is the sort of word that people like DeMoss love to use. It doesn't mean anything, but it sounds sufficiently portentous.

*§One of the more famous Imperial conquerors, Solar Macharius' first name is not an adjective, no matter how it seems.

*‖It was neither a scheduled mass time, nor had there been any significant injuries in the last few hours.


	3. Chapter 2: Fire and Glass

**A/N: Taking input from Kyle273, I've decided to increase the update rate to one chapter per week. **

Visual effects by Kyle273

Also starring Nathan Fillion as Manuellus Panhominae

* * *

Deacon Manuellus Panhominae*. DeMoss repeated the name to himself as he walked briskly along the corridors. _Deacon_ Manuellus Panhominae. It sounded so… long, and yet so pedestrian.

He took the next tram to the back of the _Salieri's Shadow_, drumming his fingers along the side of his chair. The _Shadow_ wasn't quite large enough to have a VIP tram, so it was dirty and smelly in the carriage, and long-overchewed nutrient gum layered the bottom of the seats. He found it oddly relaxing.

At last, they arrived into a section of ship that looked nearly identical to the section of ship he'd come from. There were large grey metal corridors and numbered sections. He passed through a cramped-looking chapel done in black and gold.

The chaplain directed him to an annex somewhere behind the great golden Aquila at the head of the altar, offering to take his coat.

"No, thank you," said DeMoss, hugging the black felt closer around his body. The _Shadow_ was a great, groaning, creaking mass of metal, and odd drafts tended to float through its corridors. The priest gave him an odd look, but nodded and said "as you will" before hobbling off.

Fluorescent lamps lit the dim passageway, and there was a heavy metal spiral staircase down into the lower bowels of the ship. As he descended, however, the air grew hot until even the walls were warm to the touch.

He was beginning to understand the look the old priest had given him.

Dry heat rose from the bottom of the staircase. He couldn't quite make out the room below, he could see a faint orange light creeping from round the corner, hear the roar of a fire.

_This is one hell of an office_.

He rounded the last corner, stripping his coat from his frame and holding it over his shoulder.

Manuellus stood in a room that could not possibly be his office. The walls were ferrocrete, not metal like the rest of the ship, probably something to do with heat absorption, DeMoss reasoned. There were metal tables here and there around the room, which was divided into two sections by a metal rail.

The lower section contained what looked to be an enormous furnace with a roundish hole in the nearer side.

The Deacon stood at a wide workbench twisting a long pole this way and that with his hands. At the end of the pole there was a small, glowing bulb that the Missionary was busily moulding.

DeMoss threw his coat casually across a nearby table, after taking care it was empty, and then walked forward noisily, taking care to be loud enough as to not startle Manuellus.

Manuellus continued working with the bulb. He seemed to be spinning it, carefully fixing its shape as he went along. It was… interesting, at least. He tapped something near his foot, and then the translucent bulb began to inflate.

The soft orange glow was nearly mesmerizing. DeMoss walked up to the railing and stared into its orange depths, thinking suddenly of delicate orange petals.

The Missionary didn't seem to notice. Instead, he spun the pole, letting the globule continue to inflate into a thin, transparent bubble.

"You should make a flower," he said suddenly.

Manuellus jumped a bit and then turned to find DeMoss leaning on the railing. The Seneschal gave him a thin half-smile. "So, I take it you blow."

He jumped over the railing with a quick sweep of his legs and landed on the ferrocrete floor with a graceful thump.

"Believe me," Manuellus said, bracing the pole against the table as he turned, "I've heard just about every innuendo you could think of."

"Oh?"

The Missionary gestured off to the right. "There's a hammer there. Get it for me."

DeMoss gripped the smooth plasteen with his hands. It was, like everything else in the room, warm to the touch, and he handed it to Manuellus handle-first.

"Yes," said Manuellus, taking the hammer. "The hole into the furnace is called a 'glory hole'."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously." Manuellus took the hammer and broke the end off the rod with a sudden quick motion.

"So," said DeMoss, sliding his tongue between the tips of his teeth, "an old monk, in a basement, with a 'glory hole'."

"Heard it," said Manuellus, smiling faintly. He inspected the cooling sphere, and frowned when he saw a small crack had formed around the edge.

"No good?" asked DeMoss.

"Could be better," grunted Manuellus. He made his way over to a large cabinet, opened it, and set the orb gently inside. Heat glowed softly along the edges.

"So," said DeMoss, "you're a glassmaker, too?"

"I don't make the glass," said Manuellus, shutting the cabinet softly. "And it's strictly a hobby. I find it relaxing."

"Glass_worker_, then," said DeMoss, wiping at the slight sheen of perspiration that had formed on his brow. Despite the heat, despite the fact that Manuellus was wearing the customary black of off-duty clergy, he wasn't sweating even a little. "Working with uh, _three thousand degree material_ is your idea of a good time? Remind me never to make you angry."

"Twenty one hundred, give or take," said Manuellus as he pulled off his gloves. He made his way over to a makeshift table. Low, backed benches lay at either end, and DeMoss suddenly realised they were not benches, but old pews. "This area used to be chapel storage, but Salieri let me turn it into a hotshop."

As he approached the table, DeMoss saw that it had a few shining orbs scattered along the table. Some were quite brilliantly coloured, and they seemed cool enough to touch.

"So," said DeMoss, picking up a grapefruit-sized piece of glass, "why make these?" He tossed the bauble from hand to hand, watching it as it shone in the air.

In all honesty, he had never seen a grapefruit before, only briefly heard of them on a Solomonian shuttle once, but he imagined they were roughly this size, probably a deep purple colour.

"It helps me with my meditation," said Manuellus. "It's relaxing. Glassblowing is equal parts give and take."

DeMoss smirked, pausing slightly.

"Heard it," Manuellus said.

DeMoss' smile widened. "I see why you enjoy it, then. How long have you been doing this?"

Manuellus paused, thinking. "Eight years by now. I'm still learning. There's not a ton of break-time on the _Shadow_, as you're probably aware."

"Actually," DeMoss caught the grapefruit-orb and tilted his head, "no, not really. I ran into a few _teething troubles_ trying to play accountant. I'm more-or-less killing time until the Lord-Captain sees fit to send me the uh, _extended files_."

Manuellus didn't seem to understand. "Oh," he said. "Well, enjoy it while it lasts. Salieri is pretty demanding."

"In fact," said DeMoss, spinning the globe softly in his hands, "I believe you missed a ping from the good Lord Captain himself."

"Really?" Manuellus frowned and stood up, moving to a drawer in the upper section of the room and pulling out a dataslate. "You're right."

"You don't keep it on you?" asked DeMoss. "Salieri doesn't expect you to jump when he says 'jump'?"

Manuellus shrugged slightly as he replaced the slate. "He's a little cold, but he's a good Captain. Anyway, I clear my schedule before I come down here. Normally, one of my apprentices would be replacing me, but…"

"No apprentice?" asked DeMoss.

The Missionary raised and lowered a shoulder. "No, his contract was up, so he left at Footfall. Shame, too. He was a good glassblower. A bit impatient, but he had a lot of drive. I don't suppose you came here to fill his spot?"

"No," said DeMoss, setting the ball down on the table. "Appreciation, strictly, in this case." He looked up. "Where's Footfall, then? I hadn't heard of it."

"I don't expect that you have," said Manuellus. "It's an asteroid field outside of Imperial space. They say you can get _anything_ there, for the right price."

DeMoss frowned. "I'll keep note of that. Anyway, I meant to ask you about some payments… tithes, I think, to a group called the Panhominae. You own a business?"

"Oh," said Manuellus, and there was an unreadable expression on his face for a second.

"Wait," said DeMoss. There was a slight _ping_ from his large breast pocket, and he checked his dataslate. "It seems the good Lord Captain has finally sent me the files I need."

He gave Manuellus a short half-bow. "This has been a most illuminating conversation, Missionary dear, but I am afraid that duty calls. See me in my office later about the tithes, if you would."

"Sure."

He snatched up his coat on his way out, holding it up over his shoulder. "We really have to do this again sometime," he called as he rounded the corner.

"Yeah," said Manuellus. "Sure."

* * *

It was clear after only a few moments of paperwork that the entire Salieri family was deeply, _deeply_ in the red.

A long time ago, it seemed, an old Salieri accountant had gotten it in his head that the Arbites† employed accountants of their own, accountants that were much cleverer and who spent their time unravelling paper-trails. Thus, he had begun to weave the most convoluted web of shifting payments and various interconnected accounts that DeMoss had ever seen.

This was all well and good. DeMoss was _very_ good at unravelling financial chicanery. He could almost see it before him, if he closed his eyes. Few were quite as good as he, and that was precisely the problem.

Nobody since seemed to have been able to figure out where the hell Salieri's money was. That clever, lone accountant seemed to have been the last one able to make head or tails of it. Salieri was now in the unique position of earning copious amounts of money, and not being able to draw from it. The few accounts he seemed to know _were his_ were all but drained, and yet large amounts of liquid assets were sunk into a veritable black hole.

And then time had passed, Salieri had pulled money from the wrong places, locked off investments, crossed the wrong wires, or perhaps the Arbites had frozen the odd account here or there, backing up the flow. Patterns floated before DeMoss' eyes, numbers and monetary conversions. He didn't quite have all of it, the last man to manage Salieri's money had done a poor job keeping records. But one particular pattern seemed to glow in the air before him.

Despite technically earning vastly more than he was spending, Salieri was deeply in the red.

A faint smile tugged at the right corner of DeMoss' mouth. He stretched his fingers and got to work. This was going to be _fun_.

* * *

The first night aboard ship, DeMoss dreamed.

He dreamt of a garden, pristine, in the spring. A few orange lotuses bloomed in the water, among the fallen cherry petals. The tiger lilies crept nearby, like little tongues of flame. Sprays of pink hung overhead, and the songbirds chirped in the swaying branches. There were eight of them, eight so far, each with his own song and name. He liked to sit in this garden and see if he could find all eight.

There was a bird here, standing in the water, an enormous, snowy-white crane searching for frogs. It turned and looked at him through suddenly alien eyes, the raw inhumanity in its pearl-black gaze searching him for incomprehensible tells. It flicked its head and flew off down the stream beside the path.

He followed slowly, sunlight reaching pale, warm fingers between the branches overhead. Every pebble, every blade of manicured grass was familiar to him. The rocks were stacked in incomprehensible patterns, but they were patterns that he knew as though they were his own. The laughter of a little girl floated from between the trees, far-off and ethereal.

The babble of water was getting closer now. There was a brightness ahead, a place where the cherry trees fell away. One of the songbirds, Seneca, perhaps, chirped at him, before flying away. The singing of the birds faded, to be replaced by the simple gurgling of water over stones.

"I think I understand," he said, and his words were hushed. This was not a place for speech.

The crane stood in an old fountain, preening at its feathers, tail splayed wide. It paused as he approached, and fixed him with that terribly inhuman look once more, and somehow he understood that he did not understand, that he would never understand, that what was to come would not make sense.

The trees fell away about the fountain, which stood at the edge of the world.

There was a brightness beyond, a blinding light and the smell of smoke and exhaust and electricity. Water from the fountain flowed over the edge, down forever into that blinding brightness, shining drops searing into his retinas.

The wind rose.

The crane spread its wings, leaning into the wind. The trees behind them shook, murmuring softly in protest, and a few cherry blossoms blew by. DeMoss caught a feather as it flew by, snatching it from the air in sudden reflex.

The air tore at his clothes, at his face, his hair, as DeMoss walked to the edge of that magnificent brightness. Where did the water go? Where did it come from? He looked at the brilliantly white feather in his hand, at the crane standing placidly in the marble fountain, letting the wind run cold fingers through its feathers.

He looked once more into the blinding white.

He shifted from foot to foot, deciding. There was something utterly compelling about the wind and the stark white. What was beyond that white curtain, he wondered, seized with a sudden desire to _see_. The sun, though, the sky and the cherry trees pulled him back.

He raised his foot and stepped over the edge of the world.

* * *

* Panhominae is a compound name that in some dialects of Gothic (the Imperial tongue) could be translated as 'everyman', and in others, translates to 'breadman', 'bread killer', or 'cereal killer'.

† One of the Imperial peacekeeping organisations.


	4. Chapter 3: Priest

**A/N: The King of the Wasteland has a home. www dot the-king-of-the-wasteland dot tumblr dot com**

* * *

DeMoss bit his upper lip and held it a moment. "So, have you got any acolytes running about?"

Deacon Manuellus Panhominae of the arched mitre[1] and fiery robes while on duty, Manuellus of the shabby black garb[2] while not, shook his head. "Theoretically, I guess. I suppose someone has to refill the incense when it runs down."

"Mmm," DeMoss bit his lip again. "I do."

Manuellus blinked. "Really?"

"More or less. The entire religious services department is partitioned by duty. I think," he checked the timepiece on his wrist quickly, "Ingrid Sacerdos is the present Head Acolyte, and she reports to me. Only they aren't really part of the clergy; they're just people hired to refill the thuribles."

"I didn't know that."

"But back to the matter at hand," DeMoss leant backwards and laid his arms along the back of his couch[3], "What of physicians and the like?"

Manuellus shrugged. "There are a few medical bays. I am sort of in charge of those."

DeMoss raised an eyebrow.

"They mostly take care of themselves."

"So, let me summarise," said DeMoss, "you are a ranked clergyman with no responsibilities, no influence, and no real function aboard this ship save the daily masses and occasionally as a fighting man. You're the 'spiritual leader', but this translates into no official function, and you're also somehow Salieri's right-hand man."

"Mmm," said Manuellus, "mhm, yeah."

"I suppose asking why would be irrelevant," said DeMoss. He thought a moment, then abruptly jumped to his feet. "Come on."

"What are we doing," asked Manuellus, bemused.

"You'll just have to wait and find out," said DeMoss.

* * *

Callista,

As promised, I have written you, hopefully, the first of many letters.

The _Salieri's Shadow_ is an old ship, small when compared to even some of the merchant skiffs that stop by Scintilla Prime. I don't think you'd have enjoyed it much here; it's beautiful, to be sure, and as needlessly decadent as is fitting for one of my position. It's also dark, dusty, musty, and dreary. All the walls are black, and all the ornamentation is gold. I feel as if I were trapped within an enormous wasp.

Salieri also seems to favour piled black carpets and draped sable velvet. I've already ordered my quarters redone in shades of cream and white, and had them lit sufficiently. Yes, it's childish, but I'm sure I'll be more productive when I can actually see what I'm working on.

And such work! Within the first day I've been informed that the Lord Captain intends to acquire a legion of soldiers. As such, it is up to me to dust off the barracks, talk to the galley and the quartermaster, et cetera. I haven't actually found the barracks yet, but the _Shadow_ encompasses a rather large area, so I wouldn't be surprised if I've simply missed them.

You should be happy to know that Matthias and his men have settled in nicely; he sends his regards. Pustulio has made it aboard safely, and is now packed amongst my things, as well as the special grenades you found for me. I sometimes wonder what I'd do without you, my dear.

Sadly, the Lord Captain appears more interested in my skills as a mercenary than as a seneschal or financial advisor. He thinks my men, the Cranesguard, are simple mercenaries and sellswords, the sort that can be hired for a pittance. Our Lord Captain puts his faith in fighting men and armies rather than money and power and clever words, though his words are indeed clever, and he has a quantity of both power and money. Time will tell exactly how successful he is, but I choose to have faith.

Besides, now that I've secured my position in his crew, even if I but earn a single Throne in all my time here, it will be one Throne I hadn't had before. I should be quite safe from any assassination attempts.

Wait, Callista, and have faith. Upon my return, I shall bring my enemies to their very knees.

Yours in health,

N

* * *

"This," DeMoss spread his arms wide, "is the Armoury. A larger collection of tools of war, weapons of peace, and seeds of destruction I should not find within a hundred thousand miles."

"Because we're in deep space," said Manuellus[4].

DeMoss shot him a dirty look, and continued as if the missionary had not spoken. "Only one of several aboard this starship, this is the repository for the Command Crew. You may recognise it."

"Well, yeah," said Manuellus who had lived aboard this ship for a few years now. "Why are we here?"

"Because," DeMoss spun around and began ticking things off on his fingers, "you've basically no function aside from a few religious duties that take little time," tick, "as a man with a small quantity of medical knowledge aboard a vessel with no fewer than _twelve _fully-stocked medical bays," tick, "and as a mercenary," tick. "Yet, you are one of the highest regarded members of his crew. Now, either Salieri is religious on a level rivalling that of the Ecclesiarch[5] himself," tick, "he and the _entire command staff _are haemophiliacs," tick, "or you are one hell of a mercenary. Catch."

Manuellus caught.

"This is the Nomad Widowmaker Mk. II. It fires a .308 calibre solid projectile round at about fifteen hundred metres per second, and it's accurate enough to catch a Tarsan goldwing dragonfly in the left eye at eight hundred metres. That is in no way exaggeration, and any failure to do so is on the part of the gunman. It features a floating barrel, a muzzle brake, and a sterling silver inlay on the stock. Enjoy it, because this is the only time I'll _ever_ let you touch it without breaking your hands."

Manuellus hefted the weapon, sighted down the end a moment, and then nodded appreciably.

DeMoss took his weapon back and strapped it to his back. "This," he said, fingers lingering on the silver design a moment, "kills you."

The next object to be tossed at the missionary was a familiar and trauma-inducing shape which he just _barely _managed to avoid batting away. The pin was still in its familiar position, so he forced himself to relax a moment.

DeMoss smirked. "This is a standard fragmentation grenade, the sort used by the Imperial Guard[6] on a regular basis. This kills you and _everyone else in the room_."

Manuellus tossed the grenade back at DeMoss, who caught it deftly and put it away.

"This is a lasgun. I think it's yours," he tossed the weapon irreverently at the missionary. "Congratulations; you are the proud owner of a flashlight[7]." He rummaged around in the cabinets again. "And a chainsword[8], it seems. Well, that's a respectable weapon."

Manuellus took his arms without comment. DeMoss stood there and thought for a full minute.

"I suppose in the end it depends on how good you are with the chainsword[9]," he said with a frown.

Manuellus bowed his head. "Well, I try to avoid Pride. As the Word of the God-Emperor[10] says, _act with humility at all times, for pride goeth before the fall_."

DeMoss snorted. "A flashlight and a presumptuous paper-shredder. You must be a very good clergyman."

"I can only do my best," said Manuellus, whipping the end of his chainsword in figure-eight motions. "What about you? Have you a sword?"

"The valiant and the fool fight their foes from where they can be seen," quipped DeMoss. "I aspire to remain entirely unseen if I can help it." He smiled tightly. "And when I can't, there's always the bolt pistol[11]."

"And the grenade," said Manuellus. "I suppose it is time to re-learn how to dodge shrapnel."

DeMoss chuckled. "Oh, I wouldn't bother about that," he pulled a laminated-looking sphere from his coat. "My grenades are all non-lethal."

Manuellus was rather sceptical, and voiced his concern. "I have to say, I'm rather sceptical."

"Oh, that reminds me," said DeMoss, "next time we're at port, I'll have to buy some gas masks for the lot of you." He smirked.

The missionary stayed well away from those laminated grenades from then on.

* * *

[1] A hat of a sort of design taken from an Ancient Terran root, traditionally then worn by a pre-Emperor pagan leader known as the "Pape", though certain texts translate that as the "Pope".

[2] Little white rectangle on the collar sold separately.

[3] He had a particular way of lounging that seemed to almost defy common sense. For most people, it's very difficult to slouch while still keeping the shoulders straight, but the physics of the room seemed to bend around DeMoss rather than the other way around. He filled the space available. Manuellus would have been jealous if it weren't for the fact that (a) he been a deacon of the Imperial Cult, and trained to avoid such petty sins as Envy, and (b) DeMoss looked incredibly effeminite.

[4] Warp travel, while clearly faster than space-travel, has been known to take months. It generally takes more time to get there than passes in realspace, leading to the amusing tale of the Ork captain who arrived before he left, and killed his past self in single combat for two copies of his favourite gun.

[5] Head of the state religion, the Imperial Cult

[6] The Imperium's major military arm and infantry base.

[7] 'Flashlight' was the standard slang for lasgun, the traditional standard weapon of the Imperial Guard, due to the relatively low damage and high rate-of-fire. Lasgun barrages were known colloquially as _laser light shows_.

[8] Most accurately described as the insane lovechild of a chainsaw and a sword, chainswords are relatively expensive and rare. DeMoss had forgone them as they were also rather noisy, and the missionary's choice of weapon was rather more apt than could be seen at the present moment.

[9] DeMoss had little respect for melee combat.

[10] The God-Emperor of Mankind was a historical figure at one point, and is viewed in much the same was as Jesus in the Pre-Imperial era. Little is actually known about him, and even less can be easily sifted from the propaganda. The Emperor appeared during the Age of Strife, as various warlords were fighting over the surface of Holy Terra. He united the planet and led it out into space, conquering and expanding the newborn Imperium until betrayed by his son Horus, something of a devil-analogue within the greater part of the Imperium. Mortally wounded, as the story goes, the Emperor ascended his Golden Throne, which some assert is an ancient device, and others believe to be the seat of power in the Emperor's Heaven, and still others see as more a metaphysical state. He waits there, preserved by its power, slumbering until his foretold return at the End of Days.

[11] The closest pre-information age equivalent would be a hand-shotgun. The sad thing is, there were other things in the forty-first millennium closer to a hand shotgun than was a bolt-pistol. The Imperium believed very much that bigger was better, at least, in terms of solid-projectile ammunition. As well as in certain other areas.


	5. Interlude: Chakona

_And now, for something completely different_

* * *

In the twentieth millennium, at the zenith of power for the spacefaring race of intelligent apes calling itself Mankind, little past the far reaches of what would later be called Segmentum Solar*, there arose a small civilisation of quadrupedal hexapods† that superficially resembled Terran felines.

Now, this was nothing particularly special or important. Entire civilisations routinely rose and fell in the shadow of Mankind. But these particular felines were rather different. Through a particular quirk of evolution, every single member of their race was born with innate psyker potential‡, allowing them to accomplish feats unheard of in lesser races.

Within something on the order of a few thousand years, they tamed their planet, and within a few more they began reaching upwards towards the stars. There is no name for these wise creatures, for their word for their species does not translate well; as it is formed of a sort of psychic song, it cannot be uttered by the human throat.

Unified under one banner, they formed a Federation based on humanist and Enlightenment ideals, upon truth and love and peace and beauty and progress. They formed a culture of self-actualisation, a culture devoted to bettering itself, a society of scientific advancement for the good of all feline-kind. They built medical institutions and research outposts in pursuit of a single goal: to learn all that there was to know in this wide universe they had found, for to them, there was a joy unparalleled in learning and discovery.

Imagine, imagine their incredible joy when they discovered broadcasts which, as they would later learn, had been transmitted from Terra, which was once called Earth.

Upon the surface of their home planet, a planet whose name is a psychic song of unimaginable beauty, a song which translates _very _roughly to "hope", the splash of the Milky Way was wide and bright across the horizon. Life, as they knew, especially intelligent life, was so terribly difficult to find, so rare and precious a gem as the galaxy had to offer. And yet, the universe was so very wide, and filled with beauty, that as they watched the sky, it was not so hard to imagine that on some distant star (oh, there were so many stars) another young race would be looking up into their sky from their faraway world, and wondering as well.

And now, to find another race of beings, intelligent as well, reaching toward the sky. How foolish, it seemed, to ever be angry or sad or lonely or afraid. What a beautiful thing life is, to stare at the sky, and to know deep in one's heart that message in the twinkling of the stars, "_you are not alone_". In the light of that starry sky, they knew that the universe had both shrunk and expanded, for now, they knew they might wave at the constellations and the constellations would wave back.

And so they built for themselves ships, great ships that could be driven across the void between worlds at a single thought, for they had uncovered the secrets of manipulation of the warp, its tides and currents, the ebb and flow of the great uncharted sea. And riding that wash, they could batter away everything within the great Warp that might seek to harm these agents of knowledge. They could ride the waves all the way to High Terra herself, and dip into the depths of time such that they arrived the same day they left.

All this they built into their great ship, along with medical technology, wondrous plants and animals, and great works of literature and pieces of art donated for that very purpose: a gift for this sister-race, fumbling and reaching outwards towards the Great Unknown.

The best and the brightest boarded that ship. Scientists, Engineers, Artists, and Diplomats, ready to meet this new friend among the cold airlessness of the galaxy. Two by two they padded up the ramp into the ship's hull. That ship's name cannot be said, for it is a psychic song so beautiful that any human hearing it would begin to weep, though he would know not why. But in our crude tongue, it would be called _Endeavour_.

One bright morning upon the eve of the third fertility festival of the fourth month§, the Endeavour rose like a shining star into the far beyond.

And their great Communicators, those who fulfilled a function the Humans would later call _Astropath_, awaited word from their new friends.

Two weeks later, a Space Marine battlefleet swept through their entire system, purging the peaceable Felines and scattering the remnants of their civilisation. In an unrelated navigational accident, the Endeavour travelled backwards nearly ten millennia and erased the entire feline species from existence.

This has absolutely nothing to do with our story.

* * *

*The very heart of the Imperium.

†Think of centaurs: four legs, six limbs.

‡It is worth mentioning that every single thinking being is born with innate psyker potential, as psyker potential represents a continuous function of psychic strength. It is possible to be born with negative psyker potential, or with the power to snap one's fingers and force reality itself to align to one's will. The Imperium has developed a helpful system of classifying such potential, which runs from Omega (invisible to beings of pure psychic energy) to Rho (minor Warp presence, no manifestation of psychic talent) to Alpha (physical god). The important thing to remember is that most humans fall upon a bell curve centred at Rho, and most of these Felines fall upon a bell curve centred at Epsilon, which is a decent and sizable amount of Psyker Potential.

§They had a lot to celebrate.


	6. Chapter 4: Thical

Liam O'Brien as Raphael Fraser, and Rex Hamilton as Abraham Lincoln

* * *

The lounge was dim and smoky. It wasn't the sort of lounge that the senior officers and the ship's elite frequented. There was grime on the metal floors and a layer of sticky on the tables and on the counters. The walls were coated with cigarette smoke, to the point that one could probably get cannabinoid poisoning by licking them.

The customers preferred it that way. They _liked_ the feeling of their teeth yellowing as they breathed, they enjoyed the little bowls of peanuts and the cracked shells that littered the floor, and they _liked _not being able to see further than the end of the bar; it gave the place an endless sort of feel. Here I am, at a bar. It extends forever to either side…

There was currently a girl in a slinky red dress slit up one side singing in a husky voice. Her hair fell in very dark waves. She was background noise.

"_This is the end. Hold your breath and count… to ten…_"

As a matter of location, this particular bar was quite near a formerly-empty deck of quarters. A sizable percentage of those seated wore black and white garb of a vaguely military bent, without actually managing to be actual military uniforms. They looked something between government agent and trooper. On the inside of their collars, there was a very subtle light green crane.

"War," Fraser was saying, "war never changes."

"Cute," said Griffith.

"In the grim darkness beyond the Maw," Fraser continued, "there is only war."

"Knock it off, would you?"

Fraser shrugged. "My muse cannot be silenced."

Griffith snorted. "You got that right." He glanced around.

_"__Hear my heart burst… again.._."

"So, the _Shadow_. We finally done it, eh Raphe? We're off Scintilla."

"We've been off Scintilla for eight days, now."

Griffith took this into consideration. "Isn't it seven and a bit? Terran time is a bit tricky…"

Fraser took a drink of his amasec. "It's a bit funny, isn't it? Most of Sibellus and all of Tarsus use Terran time. But it's the towers that get the sun, so,"

"Scintilla local time," Griffith finished. "We've gotten lazy."

"All that sun," Frasier looked at the hanging smoke, at the singing lady.

_"__For this is the end. I've drowned and dreamt this moment…"_

"What do you think, so far?"

Griffith shrugged. "Nobody's shooting at me."

"Yet," Fraser cut in.

"Yet."

"If you didn't want to be shot at, you should have transferred to Sibellus."

"_So overdue I owed them_," the singer mused huskily.

Griffith snorted. "Everyone that can is transferring to Sibellus." He scooted his stool closer. "Thing is, the Expanse is dangerous, sure. But all the danger happens on the planets and things. The Master likes to have a small honour guard with him, and _he's_ the one worth shooting at. The rest of us are just fodder."

"Ah," said Fraser. "Keep out of the honour guard…"

"Keep out of the crossfire," finished Griffith. He puffed a bit on his cigarette. "Pretty good, eh?"

Fraser crooked a finger. "There's one small problem with your plan, mate. What if they lose the ship?"

Griffith laughed. "They won't lose the ship."

"I'm serious," said Fraser. "It happens."

"Yeah," said Griffith. "But if they lose the ship, they lose Pa-"

Fraser suddenly made a very sharp, very hard shushing noise.

"They lose DeMoss," Griffith rolled his eyes. "And if word gets back to Scintilla…"

There was a slight pause as they contemplated this. The singing woman had moved down among the patrons for the refrain, but was now moving back onto the stage.

_"__A thousand miles and poles apart, where worlds collide and days are dark…" _

"D'you think _he_ would?" asked Fraser. The way he said 'he' was different, elevated, not quite pronouncing a capitalization, but with something of that sort of reverence.

"You remember the duel with the Powers kid?" asked Griffith.

"Yeah," said Fraser.

"The Master was taking bets on whether _he_ would kill him."

There was another pause. Griffith took a long drink of his amasec and ground the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray.

"Everyone," said Fraser.

"It's a 'matter of honour', after all," said Griffith.

"All the other Cranes, the servants, Loyola…"

"Oh, he'll do something _interesting_ to Captain Loyola," said Griffith. "And Lycaon is dead where she stands."

Fraser drank the last of his drink. "We'd better not lose the ship."

* * *

"What, exactly, do you mean, by 'they aren't here'?" Even through his faceplate, Salieri's voice held an edge of irritation. "I gave you ample warning of my arrival. The Thicali Twelfth were to be waiting by Hive Ferriclast."

"Just what I said, milord," the tired-looking soldier said. "There's nothing here. All of your soldiers have been deployed to Iola Province."

"You've deployed my soldiers," Salieri said for perhaps the third time in the last twenty minutes alone.

The soldier took a moment to gather his thoughts. It didn't take long; the Imperium was rather strict and clear about this sort of thing.

"Yes," he said simply.

"Why did you deploy them," asked the missionary.

"They were on hand," the soldier shrugged.

"Alright. Then _why,"_ Salieri said slowly and carefully, "are they at 'Iola Province'?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Why aren't you 'at liberty to say'?"

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Listen," the missionary cut in, "I imagine your superiors didn't think through what they gave you authorization for very carefully, yes?"

The man looked uncomfortable. "Uh, I'm not at-"

"Liberty to say," Manuellus finished. "I know." He gave this some thought. "What's in Iola? Surely you're at liberty to share information that I could find on a map."

The soldier thought a moment. Technically, he was skirting the very edge of the rules, but he could just say they'd looked it up. Either way, it was probably prudent not to stand up to a man who could order your skin nailed to a wall, but it was equally imprudent to stand up to the soul-crushing galaxy-spanning institution either. You couldn't win.

"Iola contains little of value other than the silica mines," he said. "The last Lord Iola, may the Emperor rest his soul, died recently childless, with neither family nor named heirs."

The seneschal looked thoughtful. "A rebellion, then," he said.

"Turmoil, yes," said the soldier. "But not open rebellion. The strife has disrupted many things, caused a famine in the larger cities."

"A police order? What's the population? How large is it? No, you wouldn't risk sending men that weren't yours unless the situation was desperate. The entire planetary defence force is occupied? I hadn't realised Thical was such a nest of turmoil," DeMoss said, a calculating look on his face.

Under his helmet, Salieri raised an eyebrow.

"It's _not_-" the soldier said sharply, then caught himself. "Forgive me, milord, it's been a long day, and I meant no…"

DeMoss waved a hand dismissively. "There's nothing to forgive. It _would_, however, be quite useful to know what we were getting into."

"Well, I…" the man thought a bit, and then DeMoss was giving him a look, as if he'd been disappointed. "Erm…"

He shook his head mutely. The seneschal looked terribly disappointed for a few moments, but then something hard and impatient flashed across his face.

"A lordless holding on its own causes no famine," said DeMoss, and there was a slight edge to his voice. "Not unless the holding was an agricultural holding, in which case you have _withheld _something _important_. Men do not eat silica, and lordless holdings cause strife, turmoil, and uncertainty, yes, but they do not devour food or waste sustenance on a scale to rival _cities_ unless there is all-out war. Many times, not even then. I know because I've _seen_ this, so do tell the Lord Captain the truth, or I shall be very cross with you."

Then DeMoss smiled in a very humourless, very calculating way, like he was trying to figure out how many loved ones he could kill before the consequences became impossible to weasel out of.

The missionary was staring at DeMoss with a bemused, curious gaze. Under his helmet, Salieri's other eyebrow rose.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"Friend," Manuellus said softly, "If something's happening at Iola, though, it's Salieri's business to know. He _needs_ to know. Now, if you tell us without proper authorization, nobody has to know. We have resources; we could have just gotten the information from somewhere else."

"And if you don't, and something is happening that you ought to have mentioned," Salieri said, "I _will_ remember."

The civil servant looked even more uncomfortable. He stared at his boots, at the shiny bits and the dust and the scuff marks. "Chaos," he said, just loudly enough to be heard.

DeMoss snorted.

"Explain," Salieri said icily.

"I only know what I've been told," he said helplessly. "An enemy insurrection, they said, but there have been tales of an army of darkness, the hungry dead rising, a yellow plague, a darkness made of carrion flies that eats men from the inside out. I'm sure that some of that is exaggeration. And the Inquisition[1] said we were not to speak of it."

There was a slight pause as Salieri thought this over. The civil servant spared a glance at Manuellus, who smiled warmly and reassuringly, as if to say that there was nothing to worry about, that the Emperor would understand the circumstances and forgive him for speaking of that which should not be uttered.

The seneschal simply smirked.

"In that case," Salieri's words were slightly more clipped than usual, "we're going to the silica mines."

* * *

They took the guncutter, a short-range lightly armed aerial vehicle. DeMoss was somewhat surprised to see that Salieri took the helm. "He is the pilot?"

"Yeah," said Manuellus. He chuckled at the seneschal's incredulous look. "Don't look so surprised. Does he really seem like he wouldn't be able to pilot his own equipment?"

DeMoss chewed on his tongue. "I'd have thought you'd servants to do that sort of thing for you."

"We do," said the missionary, "we're a bit more hands-on than some Rogue Trader crews I could mention. There was also an unfortunate incident at Arcadia; we were stranded for three days after the pilot shot himself, so Scipio decided to learn."

"Ah," said DeMoss. "Dare I ask why the pilot shot himself?"

"Really, it started when Laertes dropped the canister of frenzon†," he chuckled at DeMoss's upraised eyebrow, "it's a bit of a long story for another time."

"Noted," said DeMoss, who had decided he would find the details at his convenience later. "You've a history together, don't you?"

"Indeed we do," said the missionary. "I've served Scipio for a time, and I've seen many faces come and go aboard the _Shadow_. I think you're the first seneschal we've had, though."

"Ah," said the Seneschal again. "That explains… some things."

"Oh?"

"Mm, yes," DeMoss pressed his face up against the nearby window and looked at Thical racing beneath them, "Tell me, missionary, how did your crew manage without a seneschal for so long?"

"Well enough, but we weren't a 'well-oiled machine', if you will. Oh, everyone knew what to do for the most part, but any large-scale changes took quite a bit of work. When we'd received word that our agreement with Thical had been approved, I suggested we hire one."

DeMoss continued staring out the window, watching the tiny little buildings flash by, the roads, the rivers, the vehicles, and the trees all in miniature far below. "So I've you to thank for my position and Salieri to thank for the backlog," he said. "I hope I meet with your approval so far."

The little trees rushed by, looking for all the world as if they'd been crafted carefully from matchsticks, but they had thinned and given way to a sickly looking grassy plain.

"DeMoss, I'll be honest with you; I'm a simple missionary, and I can only say what I see."

"_For the God-Emperor detests anyone who does these things,_" DeMoss murmured, "_anyone who deals dishonestly._"

"The Sacred Delectus of the God Emperor, volume IV: The Teachings of the Word-Bearers," nodded Manuellus. " Chapter twenty-five, verse sixteen."‡ §

"My father used to recite that whenever he thought I was lying," said DeMoss.

"I can see that you're a complicated man, DeMoss. Do you know anything of how the mafia is organised?"

DeMoss viciously derailed his train of thought‖ and then shrugged. "I have a slight passing familiarity. I assume that the Malfian Mafia is different from the Sibellan Mafia, of course."

"It is built on trust," said Manuellus. "Rank is based on trust. And that is very much how Scipio thinks. And he is cautious with his trust, _DeMoss_."

"Ah, the name issue again. I do prefer a more formal type of address," said DeMoss, "but if it comforts you, you may call me Brutus."

"You don't look like a Brutus," said Manuellus, surprised. "Your name is Brutus?"

DeMoss toyed with the idea of lying to a priest. "No."

Manuellus sighed. "I will assume you have your reasons." He shook his head. "To be honest, this whole business has me uncomfortable. I'm not sure if you know exactly why you have this job?"

DeMoss laced his fingers together and stretched them. "I have a few guesses. Salieri put out the word, called in a favour. I had need of employment, and called in a favour of my own. Add a mutual business associate to the mix, and here I am."

Manuellus frowned. "I dislike nepotism on general principle. Favours or no, I would have asked Salieri to reconsider were you less skilled. You have little experience, also."

"This is how one acquires experience, is it not? Besides, I've worked with Salieri before."

"Oh?"

"I, uh, used to buy stuff from him once in a while."¶

Manuellus thought for a moment. The grasslands had given way to something that might have once been a desert, but then rivers had moved and the climate had changed. It looked both sandy and damp, and it was dotted with short, scrubby-looking plants.

"I'm going to tell you something," Manuellus said eventually, "and it's going to sound a bit patronising. How old are you, now?"

DeMoss finally tore his eyes away from the window. "We're asking personal questions, now, are we? How much money do you make? Tell me something embarrassing from your childhood. Let's compare the lengths of our penises, shall we?"

"What? No! I - I'm sorry," said Manuellus. "Let's not, please. And I'm sorry. It's just that it's a bit hard to tell, now."

DeMoss looked back at the window. "My grandmother was addicted to rejuv*†. She looked younger than I do."

"Yeah," said Manuellus.

"I haven't taken any," he said after a pause.

Manuellus took a breath and held it for a moment. "You're young," he said, "and immature, and aggressive and maybe a little impulsive."

"A _little_," snorted DeMoss.

"You also don't have any reason to be loyal to Salieri, which I can understand," Manuellus continued. "You're also clever and ambitious. If you're careful, you could be one of his best men."

DeMoss flinched slightly. It was subtle, but an odd expression flashed across his face for the briefest of seconds. "I'm not sure he'd want me at my _best_."

Well that didn't sound ominous at all. Manuellus thought suddenly of campaigns gone by, of things that were _successes_ in name only.

"What's wrong?"

Manuellus blinked. "No. I just… no. I was just thinking."

DeMoss raised an eyebrow. "Your mind must be a scary place."

* * *

The guncutter landed with some grace amid swirling clouds of dust and sand. DeMoss jumped out of the cabin while it still hung suspended four feet in the air, because he could. His black coat whipped around him and he held a hand firmly planted on his tricorne to keep it from flying away.

Clouds of dust and grit swirled about, raking across his skin and leaving their sandy residue along the inside of his coat.

It was flat for nearly as far as the eye could see. The land was devoid of hills, mountains, ravines, or dunes. The ground was a hard-packed tan crossed here and there with little cracks, and the sky was a light butterscotch colour strewn with cottony clouds.

An alien sky, one sun and no moons. Thunder might have rumbled; he couldn't hear anything over the roar of the wind in his ears as the guncutter descended touched down behind him.

It was so…empty. The ground loomed, pressed up against his vision. DeMoss had never quite gotten over the stark beauty of open space.

To the north, he could see Hive Ferriclast, so distant and flat and grey it could have been painted onto the sky itself. The air was charged with excitement, saturated with the alien sand blowing through alien air.

Oh, this was gonna be _awesome_.

Manuellus stepped onto the hard-packed ground "So," he said, "this is the town of Flatsands."

And just like that, DeMoss was back. "Flatsands? That's the name of this place?"

"Apparently."

"Creative," DeMoss muttered, scraping at the ground with the heel of his boot. "Missionary, I would ask that you do me the kindness of answering a very important question."

Manuellus thought for a second. "Did you just ask me if you could ask a question without using up the question?"

The Seneschal shrugged. "Old habits," he said. "But do tell me: what is that in your hand?"

Manuellus looked up at the bit of cloth dangling from the six-foot pole in his hands. "Oh, it's the Salieri family crest. You see, the S shows the importance of family. The Malfian Mafia has been in existence for hundreds of years, and always a Salieri has been at its head; they don't name successors who aren't blood relatives like some of the nobility. The gear represents…"

"Right, right, I see," said DeMoss after Manuellus had failed to notice his ever-rising left eyebrow. "I suppose I meant to ask a rather more important question."

"Ask it, then," said Manuellus.

DeMoss stroked his goatee*‡. "How shall I put this…?" He bit his tongue a moment, and then said "What do you hope to use it _for_?"

"I was going to inspire the troops with it, well, when we get them, that is."

"Right," said DeMoss. He thought for a moment. "Next time we use the guncutter, be sure to ship it high in transit, you know, so it catches the wind."*§

"I don't think… I don't think that we can actually do that."

* * *

* The Inquisition is a vast organization dedicated to stamping out heresy in all its forms. Since heresy in the Imperium is generally less about alternate orthodoxy and more about worshiping and summoning ancient beings from deep within the Warp to devour and consume all of Mankind, the Inquisitors have a rather important job.

Interestingly, due to various and sometimes contradictory information-control policies, Chaos does not officially exist except as a sort of generalised 'monster under the bed' faerie tale villain. And yet, the Inquisition works on, one of the largest and healthiest branches of the Imperial Cult.

† A combat drug

‡ The Imperium had a rather large number of holy books.

§ DeMoss' thought process at this point can be summed up as 'oh he did NOT have that just memorised'.

‖ Rather analogous to a typical internet session, where one begins with the express purpose of learning about Rayleigh Scattering with regards to the atmosphere, and ends four hours later with a few funny cat videos and a newfound knowledge about the mating habits of various members of the Pompilidae family. Honestly, however, such sessions are a better analogy than they seem, because they usually end with some manner of porn.

¶ Salieri had spent a good deal of time trying to shift his family's income to more sustainable sources. He'd done a brief stint as a smuggler before one rather suspicious package broke loose and ate part of the crew.**

** Technically, it ate part of part of the crew.

*† Drug common among the elite of the Imperium, capable of reversing the effects of aging.

*‡ To be honest, this was the very reason that he had bothered to grow one in the first place.

*§ DeMoss was a very subtle sort of person.


	7. Chapter 5: The Beginning of a Plan

Flatsands lived up to its name. It consisted of a loose conglomeration of flat, brown-roofed buildings made of permacrete. The ground was slightly softer here, and scattered indentations from years of footprints had worn rough paths around the buildings. There were no roads.

On the outskirts, row after row of tents stretched haphazardly around the town. "I'd like to see what I can do," said Manuellus. "Find out what's happening here."

Salieri waved his hand graciously but absentmindedly, like a king generously allowing a peasant to continue existing in his presence. The missionary left.

There were a few PDF* troopers here, and it didn't take much effort to flag one down and ask for directions.

"You," Salieri selected the soldier with the most stripes, "who is in command here?"

The soldier took in the black and gold carapace armour and then snapped a sharp salute. "Colonel Quine commands the Thicali Twelfth."

"And where can I find this Quine?"

"Town hall," said the soldier. "I can show you right in."

"Yes," said DeMoss. "Take us to your leader."

* * *

The soldier led them toward the largest cluster of buildings, buildings which were otherwise indistinguishable from their brethren. There were a set of large double doors, which might have been impressive had Salieri and DeMoss not come from enormous, continent-spanning cities.

They entered the apparent town hall, and the soldier led them through a corridor and up a flight of stairs to wherever "Colonel Quine" was. DeMoss imagined a heavyset man in a flowing military-style coat, the sort with lots of buttons and prominent epaulets. He'd be tough, experienced, and clever; curt and sparing with his words, but nonetheless inspiring. And he would be the sort of man who perpetually squinted at everything, the sort that always had a thick cigar clamped between his jaws.

As he mused on one level of reality, DeMoss was careful to note the layout of the building, memorize the route they took, and estimate the remaining unseen space inside based on the overall shape and the size of the building as he had seen it from the outside. Like all good Seneschals, DeMoss had the rather unique ability to multitask very well.

Salieri had it as well; it paid to have the ability to think very carefully about something and still notice the assassins hiding in the corners, especially when you were a Mafia Don. His musings, however, were of a darker and less fanciful sort. He was thinking about whether or not he could spin all the delays into some sort of tangible advantage, and how he would go about taking command of his army. For, of course, he intended to solve whatever Chaos problem they had here; it was only a question of how many opportunities he could seize while he was at it.

As a result, all present saw and took note of the door with the rather small and innocuous blue crab plaque, and, notably, each failed to inform the other.

The soldier briskly turned a corner and came to a door that looked exactly the same as all the other doors. He rapped on it twice with his knuckles in quick succession, and then stood at attention beside it.

Salieri opened the door. Light from the hallway flooded in.

"Oh, it's a war room," said DeMoss. And so it was.

It's a fact of war rooms and other loci of intense strategy that they are always dimly lit, with darkened corners and a sort of chiaroscuro effect on the strategists' faces, presumably because they find it easier to think when there are bright lights shining in their eyes. These rooms are generally, though not always, rather cavernous, and the shadowy far reaches ensure that the room never quite seems to end.

Such rooms generally feature large tables, perhaps seats arranged round the tables, and upon one wall and one wall only†, a large screen depicting maps and data and real-time information pertaining to the imminent combat.

This room had been a staff room of sorts for the tiny town before Colonel Quine had commandeered it for his purposes, so though it was dimly lit, it was also somewhat cramped and almost, but not quite, uncomfortably warm. The walls were that crumbly sort of cheap drywall one finds in minimum-cost establishments, and from the way the floor sounded beneath their feet, DeMoss surmised that it was some sort of wood. The way the table threw shadows against everything, it was hard to tell.

There _was_, of course, a large table, about which shadowy figures crowded and argued and discussed. It was of a dingy brown sort of wood, and the surface looked pressed and uneven through years of uninterested staff or board members picking at it with their autoquills and fingernails, which sort of ruined the war council effect.

But that effect was minimal next to the Map.

It looked to be of parchment or vellum, or some other appropriate material, and it was enormous. Parts of it actually hung down off the surface of the table, and it looked to have been lovingly inked and coloured in vibrant hues, even under the poor lighting.

It depicted the region of Thical located to the east of Hive Ferriclast. DeMoss could see the scrubland blending to grassy plains that he'd noticed from the guncutter.

Quine and his men had placed little leaden figurines upon the map in strategic positions, to represent units‡. There were a little tank and two metal infantry atop the area labelled Flatsands, and, further to the east, a great gash in the tan of the sandy terrain. It looked sutured with a series of little bridges. The military men looked to be arguing about the placement of perhaps half the board.

There was a lull in the argument, as they looked to see who had entered. Light from the hallway flooded into the room, casting Salieri and his short entourage in shadow.

"Gentlemen," said Salieri.

The two waded forward through the shadow. There were three men who seemed to have been pointing and arguing over the board as the Rogue Trader entered, but there were others with fewer stripes in the shadows.

The first, to DeMoss' utter delight, _was_ a heavyset, experienced-looking man with hair that seemed as if it was on the verge of going grey, though he didn't have a cigar, and his eyes were at something wider than a squint. He was bare-headed and wore a simple military jacket which was unbuttoned in the heat. His rank couldn't quite be seen in the darkness, but it was probably significant.

The second had his jacket off entirely, and looked several inches shorter than he actually was. He was thin and wiry and pale, though the meagre light cast deep shadows across his face and probably made him look worse than he really did. He seemed slumped, apathetic, and uninterested.

The third was clearly of no military persuasion whatsoever. He was of middling to short height, but he had his chest puffed out and head held high, so that he looked something like a pigeon. He had short, dark hair parted strictly to one side, and his attire embroidered and bedecked with little golden ornamentation to the point of ostentatiousness§, yet it was of a clearly inferior cut.

It was he who had been speaking as they walked in. "Well, I suppose if you're not interested in my _offer_, I can give you some time… oh, hello," he said as he noticed the newcomers.

His voice bore mentioning all by itself, since there was a clear disconnect between the way the man _thought_ he sounded, and the way he _actually _sounded. In his own mind, the man clearly was a master at persuasion. He knew exactly when to push and when to back away and give his prey time to consider his next move. He sounded sure, confident, smooth, and he knew all the right buttons to push without his mark ever knowing they'd been pushed.

In the real world, however, he sounded unctuous, to the point where listeners felt the urge to pull out a handkerchief and wipe their faces‖. He smiled in an anticipatory yet all too transparent way, though the raw hunger in his eyes made it clear how desperate he was for recognition and approval. His voice cracked continuously from the strain of trying to maintain too many contradictory elements, so he sounded a bit like a rusty hinge. An oily, _oily_ yet rusty hinge. Somehow.

"Hello, good sirs, it seems I'm not," he shot a glare at the heavier military man, "_appreciated_ here." He swept past them, and his coat swooped like some sort of cape. "We should talk. You can find me by the sign of the Crab."

Seneschal and Rogue Trader exchanged a glance, and then DeMoss turned and started after the oily man.

Salieri held out a gauntleted hand against DeMoss' chest, stopping him short. "Don't interact."

DeMoss nodded curtly and left.

"So," Salieri began, "you're Colonel Quine?"

At that, the apathetic one glanced upwards, and the larger one shook his head. "I'm Captain Dever. That's Colonel Quine."

Colonel Quine went back to staring vacuously at one point somewhere between Salieri's chin and Dever's left shoulder.

"I am Salieri," said Salieri.

Dever nodded. "We had word that you were coming," he said, rearranging miniatures on the map as he spoke, "but the brass decided it was time for redeployment. Since most of our force is missing, I assume you'll want a seat on the command crew."

"How does one lose most of an army?"

Quine flinched. Dever shot him a look that was partially sympathy and partially something else that Salieri couldn't quite identify, and then finished placing pieces on the map.

"This is the situation one month ago," Dever gestured to the north end of the board. "As you may well know, the most recent Lord Iola died with neither a will nor a clear line of descent. Local police were dispatched to deal with riots, and they eventually called for PDF aid.

A token PDF force was dispatched to the Triplets, here," he indicated a trio of cities east of the ravine. "They are old mining towns mostly, but they also depend on trade from Ferriclast, some of which moves through Flatsands. At this point two of the three had reached Epidemic Status – originally, we thought it a side effect of the frequent riots and various shortages caused by Lord Iola's death. Now, we suspect it was some biological agent, probably Chaotic in nature.

Within a week, the Triplets were completely overrun, and the High Council placed the area under quarantine. Worse, the diseased had begun to organise and mass as an army.

The Inquisition calls them Carrionates, says they are a known class of Chaotic infantry. Unfortunately, they haven't told us how to beat them. Carrionates are slow-moving and incapable of weapons fire. They make up for it by being strong, tough sons of bitches, and they don't slow down when wounded.

We put up a unified attack here, using Flatsands as our launching point, and made it nearly to the Triplets without meeting resistance. Unfortunately, the Carrionate Army managed to surround most of the offensive here, near St. Titus' Crossing."

Dever pointed to a little city on the northern side of the ravine, near one of the larger bridges.

"The right flank managed to escape capture, but was pushed back all the way to Flatsands once more, at which point the enemy seemed to lose cohesion and was unable to pursue. We are that right flank, and consist of about two hundred men and five Chimera tanks."

Salieri pressed his lips together and thought for a moment. "So, the Front is lost entirely?"

Quine flinched again, though it was really more that he flicked his eyes very quickly at the board and then back to that one point exactly halfway between Salieri's chin and Dever's right shoulder. It was subtle, but he might have twitched as well.

Dever glanced over at the Colonel. "Maybe. Command has, uh, decided to proceed on the assumption that it is."

"And what do you think?"

Dever stared at Salieri, looking straight into his eyes. "Major Hertz is on the front, and any man from the Twelfth will tell you that he is a capable commander and a damn fine asset. He has anywhere from one to two thousand men with him, and I think that if you keep throwing away military assets, soon you won't have much of an army, _sir_."

Salieri nodded, and there was something that might have been the beginning of a smile on his face. "So, what's the plan?"

* * *

The guard at the door glanced at his companion, who nodded.

It was something of a mystery why they needed two guards at the door to a room filled with heavily-armed soldiers. Command in the Imperium was always deadly, and therefore, Command in the Imperium was always _deadly_. If you were good with a weapon, you survived. If you were good with a weapon, _and_ you were tactically gifted, you were promoted.

This was, of course, why you didn't _need_ two door guards. The man who was not a guard at the door slipped away down the corridor, out the door, and round the back of the building. The sun beat down in a headache-inducing brightness.

There were three Thicali waiting for him in the alcove between the second staff room and the old mayor's office. The first was tall and wide, the second was medium and slight, and the third was short and young and almost prepubescent-looking.

By unspoken agreement, the medium figure was afforded the meagre shade. Not that it mattered; the air was itself hot. "What did you see?" he asked.

"Mackenzie was right, Ryan" the former guard burst out. "Salieri's finally showed up."

"Course Mackenzie was right," scoffed the medium figure, apparently Ryan. "Where is he anyway? He ought to hear this."

"You know where he is," grunted the large one, really a sweet man named Boyde. "Ever since we started out in this Emperor-forsaken wasteland, he's been shut up in his tent crying about germs. I don't know what's got into him."

"Tell us about the new CO, Powell" the youngish one said quietly. He was slight and thin, with close-cropped hair and knobbly, scarred fingers. His name-badge said "Perks".

"Bigwig, tough-looking bloke," said the ex-guard Powell. "Looks like a nob, and walks around in a suit of carapace. He's got a friend, prolly also a nob, _really _tall and he's got a big gun."

"What about a priest?" rumbled Boyd.

"Nah, not that I saw," said Powell. "Prolly just a random priest. Anyway, Oin was in again, not sure what he said, but he left in a huff, and then the tall guy followed him out."

"Salieri," said Ryan. "Is he any good?"

"Oh, right," said Powell. "I was going to say. I think they're halfway to a plan, now."

"Good," Perks smiled grimly, at the same time that Boyd groaned. "You mean that he's not taking us?"

"No," said Powell. "Salieri was pretty fixed on fighting off the zombies."

"We're getting sent out again," said Perks with something halfway between a smile and a snarl on his face.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the pompous little man went through the door with the crab plaque on it, and since he was under strict orders not to engage, DeMoss settled down around a corner like some lovestruck twelve-year-old and prepared for a stakeout of sorts.

Within two minutes he was bored out of his skull.

Within five, he'd decided that it was more than probable there was a back door to the crab-man's room, or he'd fallen asleep, or he'd killed himself, or any number of other reasons he wouldn't come back out the way he'd gone.

To his credit, DeMoss managed to sit motionless for a full five minutes and twenty three seconds before leaving.

As he passed the crab plaque, his hand reached contemplatively into the depths of his coat, and he withdrew a spherical object, a grenade of sorts.

It was unusual in that it largely consisted of a central laminated mass dotted with tiny holes. When one pulled the pin, a tiny quantity of chemical would be released in the centre of the mass, dissolving and converting it to a gas, which would escape through the tiny holes on the surface, but the pressure buildup within the laminated surface would eventually prove too much. Within a quantity of seconds, the whole thing would explode with about the force of a balloon popping, and the grenade itself would dissolve completely.

It was completely nonlethal, dealt no collateral damage, and, best of all, utterly hilarious, for the central mass was composed of an obscura derivative¶.

He stared at the invitingly lockless door, tossing the grenade up and down idly with one hand.

Then, he turned and left.

* * *

* Planetary Defense Force

† This staple has persisted despite the fact that it would be out of the comfortable field of view for fully half those seated.

‡ These little figurines had always fascinated DeMoss, who could be described as one who had watched too many war holovids. For a time, he had studied every treatise on war, command, and tactics that he could get his hands on (he never managed to acquire the Codex Astartes, and all the rest were propaganda mixed in with useful information) before deciding that he was terrible at it, the whole thing was useless, and that all he really wanted was to push the little figurines around a board. He had had an idea that perhaps one could acquire a map of the locale of a famous battle, divvy up a series of little miniatures, determine a few playing rules, and spend an afternoon with a friend cheerfully killing one another. Had events not conspired in such a way that ended with him aboard the _Salieri's Shadow_, he may have built the next major Imperial games workshop.

§ One of the most fun and uncommon yet incredibly useful words in the entire language, if you ask DeMoss what "ostentatious" means, he will say that it means "gaudy". Ask him what "gaudy" means, and he'll inform you it means "tawdry", which, of course, can be defined as "ostentatious". Salieri doesn't know what "ostentatious" means, but Manuellus Panhominae will helpfully explain that it means a thing is showy, like the thing is trying too hard to impress while actually not being that impressive, like lead painted gold. Manuellus is nice, you see, and tends to tailor his speaking style to his audience, whereas DeMoss uses the old tongue exclusively, with a smug sort of air, especially if he suspects that you can't quite understand him.

‖ Or better yet, his.

¶ Obscura is perhaps the singularly most popular illegal narcotic within the bounds of the Imperium. DeMoss had caught one surprisingly subtle drug addict on the payroll who had slipped through in a surprising burst of incompetence on his part when he found one of the quartermasters chewing on his personal stock of grenades, but fortunately the lamination proved to be more than a match for the man's dental plan.


	8. Chapter 6: Preparation for War

Captain Dever cupped his hands around the little figurines on the part of the map labelled Flatsands, and slid them eastward across the ravine and roughly over the Triplets.

Salieri was not impressed. "I hope you're not actually considering that."

Dever glanced over at Quine, who, as usual, entirely failed to respond.

Salieri was very much not impressed. "_That's_ your plan? A second frontal assault? A frontal assault with a _reduced force_?"

"Obviously, this will succeed where the last failed," said a heretofore silent soldier whose name Salieri hadn't bothered learning[1], "now that the men are tired and morale is low."

"Command has ordered the troops to hold position until they can get their heads out of their asses, which is a good plan, if you ask me," said Dever. "That's the plan until we can think of a better plan, sir."

* * *

"Pray, my brothers and sisters," Manuellus said authoritatively, raising his arms, "that our sacrifice may be acceptable to the God Emperor."

"May the Emperor accept the sacrifice at your hands, for the praise and glory of His name," the congregation chanted, "for our good and the good of all his holy Ecclesiarchy."

Manuellus smiled. These people were refugees, with barely half a Throne to their names. The Ruinous Powers (for what else could bring unlife to those already dead?) had displaced these people. Chaos had destroyed their homes, their lives, everything they held as precious. And yet, here they were, giving thanks and glory to the God Emperor for the simple gifts they had, the air they breathed, the meagre food they ate, and their continued health and integrity of spirit.

The sun was low in the sky, and it seemed to cast a golden glow upon the congregation.

"The Emperor's favour be with you," he went on. There was a stirring in the crowd, and most of them said "And also with you."

He frowned. Did the Emperor not command their respect? And yet, here was a great murmuring from within the crowd.

"Lift up your hearts," he said loudly.

By now the murmuring had grown louder. One woman gasped. "It's him!" She fell to her knees.

Others began to fall to their knees, too. "It is the Emperor," some cried out.

"Sanguinius[2] and the Saints," cried others.

"A procession of Primarchs," called still others.

Manuellus looked around, but saw nothing. The crowd, one and all, had fallen to their knees in praise and adulation. And yet, for miles around, there was not a thing to be seen.

And then he saw the figure out of the corner of his eye, if only because it was the only one not kneeling in rapture. DeMoss stood, his black flannel coat billowing slightly in the breeze, and a slight smirk on his face. He held up to the sunlight a small object which glinted. It appeared to be a small ring, almost…

Almost like the sort one plucks from a grenade.

* * *

Salieri reached out and plucked a figurine from the board.

It was an ugly little thing, perhaps half the length of his index finger in height, composed of a heavy lead, roughly bipedal, and covered in sores and ragged flesh. Its countenance was twisted in a wholly unnecessary expression of rage and hunger which Salieri noted and found almost comical[3].

"Tell me about these 'Carrionates'," he said. "What happened to the pursuing army?"

"Nothing," said Dever. "They just gradually lost cohesion. By the time we reached Flatsands, they were little more than dumb animals; they're attracted to anything that might be prey and they run from sudden noises, but they're otherwise unresponsive. We scared them off with a few grenades just east of here. They act entirely on instinct by now; they're not smart enough to be effective guerrillas, so Command decided that we didn't need to worry about them."

"And that happened here?" Salieri placed the metal Carrionate figurine on the board.

"Actually, a bit closer to here," Dever adjusted the positioning so it was a bit closer to Flatsands. "Perhaps ten hours ago."

"So," said Salieri, "you have an army-sized mass of undead walkers scattered within line-of-sight to Flatsands."

There was a very, very short pause.

Dever grunted out something that sounded like a vulgarity[4]. "And they're chasing the nearest warm body by instinct."

There was another, rather longer pause. A few more obscenities may have been uttered, or perhaps the men collectively shuffled uncomfortably.

"They're coming?" asked the soldier who had spoken earlier, giving voice to the tension that had settled on the room.

There was a frantic pounding at the door.

"I don't think they're coming," said Salieri as an attending lieutenant rushed to open the door. "I think they're here."

* * *

The trooper tents were slightly better than the refugee tents.

They were still pathetically Spartan. This one, in particular, consisted of two bedrolls and a small arms locker on either end.

There was a man rocking back and forth, clutching his knees in the tent. His skin was a shocking shade of pale, and at close range, one could make out the thin web of capillaries just below the first layer of flesh. His hair, too, was a shade of blonde so platinum that it could not exist. Officially, that's what it was: platinum blonde, since mutants were abhorred and subhuman within the Imperium, abhumans[5] were generally reviled and disliked on Thical, and bleach-white was not a sanctioned Human hair colour.

In much the same way, his eyes, which were now shut tight below frantically-twitching coarse-white brows, were officially blue. A very bright, very washed-out blue that was not at all in actuality a pale silvery violet.

Boyd was holding the smaller man by the shoulders as he rocked back and forth. "Come on, 'kenzie, we got to go. That's the call. We're being attacked. We've got to help fight them off."

Mackenzie whimpered something soft, something about germs, but he allowed himself to be coaxed to his feet and led out of the tent.

"There's a good trooper," Boyd said soothingly.

"Good… good trooper," Mackenzie repeated fervently. He retrieved from his locker a lasgun, a gas mask, and a pair of wide sunglasses which he pressed into place over his not-violet eyes. He also took a coin.

"Leave the coin," Boyd said gently, but firmly.

Mackenzie ignored him, taking it and flipping it with one hand and catching it in his palm. Heads.

Then he did it again. Heads.

"Come on, Mackenzie," said Boyd. "We've got to go. They're forming up. Sarge'll be looking for us."

Heads again.

On the fifth try, Boyd reached out and snapped the coin from the air. "Come _on_," he said. "You can flip your coin after we're done."

Mackenzie pawed urgently at Boyd's closed hand, and Boyd sighed and opened his palm.

The coin had come up tails. Both sighed visibly in relief.

"It's done," said Boyd. "Come on, 'kenzie, let's go."

Mackenzie pocketed the coin, and then stepped outside into the blinding sun.

* * *

"Gentlemen," said Salieri from atop his Chimera[6].

The tank looked much, much larger than it had seemed beside its tiny leaden counterpart. It was more than that, though; the vehicle looked so much more solid, like the several tonnes of crushing power that it really was.

And atop it, Salieri stood tall, his armour gleaming in the light as his voice carried over the ranks.

"As should be more than clear by now, this is a Chaos incursion. In the past, you have been ordered to rout, to run and hide and retreat. Such behaviour is no longer acceptable, and the incompetence that has lost half this province is over. Imperial soldiers do not flee from a mindless horde, and certainly not under my command. Thical does not belong to carrionates or Chaos. This is no longer a retreat. Today at long last, we are at war."

* * *

A few minutes earlier, DeMoss stared at the dataslate before him, lost in thought.

As was fast becoming typical, the Lord Captain had neglected to furnish him with the information and materials required to actually do his job as High Factorum and Seneschal. Indeed, he suspected that the only reason he'd been brought on this venture was as a personal bodyguard.

But the books needed to be balanced, and the men needed to be fed. He'd managed to determine, through a combination of hearsay and name-dropping, the precise number of men that comprised the Thical Twelfth, Salieri's legion as promised in his Warrant of Trade.

The number was impressive even for a veteran Rogue Trader: six thousand men and two hundred Chimera tanks, though at the moment they'd only gathered about five hundred. It was even more impressive when one realised, after several minutes' worth poring over shipboard diagrams and schematics, _that the _Shadow_ had no barracks_.

Naturally, the crew quarters were occupied. With a bit of reshuffling, he might be able to fit another few hundred, but six thousand? DeMoss shook his head. With a flick of his stylus, he redid the numbers. Perhaps they could make camp in the aft cargo bays. He'd have to devise some system for shuttling food and other necessities amongst six thousand men, not to mention the fact that the washroom lines would be enormous in the mornings.

He sighed and put down his stylus. The sound of the refugees going about their daily business outside was immensely distracting. If anything, it seemed to have gotten louder since he'd first sat down to work.

He stood suddenly as a burst of paranoia jolted through his body, tucking the dataslate among his things. It _had_ gotten louder. Outside his window, he could see refugees scurrying about. There was a sudden burst of panic as he grabbed his micro-bead and his rifle. As his hands reached for the doorknob, there was a sudden pounding from the other side. He jerked the door open.

"Sir!" A youngish Thicali infantryman saluted smartly.

"No time, join the others," said DeMoss as he hurried past, pausing only briefly to glance at the man's name-badge. "Ryan?"

"Yes, sir. Jackson Ryan."

"Go join the others," DeMoss called as he headed for the stairs. "And good luck, Private."

* * *

Mackenzie had settled somewhat once he had made it to the defensive line. Three heads. That wasn't so bad. That was a one-in-eight chance. That was still within the realm of normal possibility. And the crowd of people all round him was comforting. Loyal, disciplined, united waves of people all round. He had always felt safer in the PDF for this very reason, ironically enough.

Boyd was close by, giving the smaller man what shadow was afforded by his larger frame. It wouldn't last; they'd be in battle soon, and anyway even the ground scattered light up from the sun, but he appreciated the thought. Come the end of the day, assuming he survived, every inch of exposed skin would be covered in bright red peeling burns. His neck was probably the worst; Mackenzie already suffered from light insomnia, and the burns tended to grind against his rough cotton pillow.

He took deep, steady breaths through his gas mask. All the troopers wore them; they were regulation, and for this, Mackenzie was utterly, utterly grateful.

"Where's Ryan?" asked Boyd.

You could tell it was Boyd only because it sounded like Boyd. An odd side effect of the gas masks was that it rendered all the troopers more or less anonymous.

"They sent him on a message run," Powell said. "He should be here soon."

"He'd better show," said Boyd. "It feels weird going in without him."

"Well, if he doesn't get here soon, he's gonna be late," Reese said.

"Literally," snickered Perks, "and figuratively."

Powell and Reese stared at him a moment. "What?"

Perks rolled his eyes. "Right. Military. Look, just ask the freak."

"What?" asked Boyd flatly.

"Come on," he turned to Mackenzie, "where's Ryan? And why are we being attacked by dead people? And are we gonna win? And…"

"That's enough," said Boyd.

"Can you talk?" he snapped at Mackenzie. "Or is part of being a mutant freak not having a tongue?"

"If you don't like it," Boyd said calmly, "you can leave."

Perks looked between Boyd and Mackenzie, and then nodded stiffly. "Fine. I won't say anything."

Ryan jogged up, squinting through the sun, and made his way through the crowd to the group. Ryan was a youngish man, but then again, the entire Twelfth was a green founding, and most of the troopers and enlisted were rather young. He was the only one of the group to have served a tour with the Thicali PDF, and it showed.

"Hey," he said, "I had to tell Salieri's accountant to move his arse. What'd I miss?"

There was a slight silence as Perks pointedly failed to look at Mackenzie.

"Nothing much," said Reese.

"I see," said Ryan. He patted Mackenzie on the back. "Don't worry. Just like last time. You'll be okay."

Mackenzie flinched and licked his lips. "Sorry," he said. "Just… don't touch me."

"Oh?" Ryan removed his hand.

"It's just… this is not… _real_," said Mackenzie. "I don't know how to explain. There's something big over the ravine. I can feel it."

* * *

"Colonel Quine, form a defensive line between the walking dead and the town," Salieri ordered. "Our five Chimera tanks will be spaced along our centre behind the first row of troops."

"Yes, sir," Quine said flatly. His face seemed almost anaemic, for he was pale, yet his face showed almost no sign of fear, or any expression at all. The sunlight did absolutely nothing for his face; if anything, it deepened the shadows under his eyes and made him look small. His uniform was oddly baggy and his neck was long and awkward, so he looked almost childlike in an older and more experienced man's clothes.

His Adam's apple bobbed once, and then he turned and muttered a set of orders into his micro-bead.

"Lord Captain?" A voice said in Salieri's ear. He hissed and pressed a hand to the side of his helmet. The voice was smooth and treacherous. It belonged to the Seneschal.

"And where have _you_ been the last hour?" Salieri said. "There are-"

"Zombies marching on the town, yes. I see them."

Salieri turned round. The small town lay behind him. Many of the refugee tents had been packed away, their inhabitants cowering within the buildings. A faraway shape on the roof of the town hall gave him a wave. It hefted something long and thin and deadly-looking.

The seneschal did say he was a sniper.

"Stay there and fire on the carrionates at the horde's flanks," Salieri ordered.

"You wound me, Lord Captain. Am I but a simple mercenary in your eyes?"

"No, you're a sniper," Salieri said. Unwilling to continue bantering, he shut DeMoss out of the channel and turned his attention to his army.

* * *

The deacon Manuellus Panhominae stood in the shadow of one of the enormous Chimeras.

It was approaching early afternoon, so the light of the sun shone just over the edge of the near tank. Most of Manuellus was in shadow. His eyes, however, were not, and there was a glare.

Waves of heat rippled from the parched ground. Two hundred men stood at attention, sweltering in the heat as they squinted through the light and haze. Manuellus stood a few rows back from the front, and, like his vertically impaired fellows, he was reduced to jumping or peering around the troopers.

There was a low murmur. It sounded exactly like two hundred PDF troopers drawing fragmentation grenades from their packs. Manuellus took it as his cue and drew a long chainsword, but he did not yet start the tiny plasteel teeth moving about the rim. No sense in tripping and accidentally impaling a fellow trooper[7].

"Get ready," a voice came through his micro-bead. "One hundred metres."

* * *

[1] Scrubs, the lot of them.

[2] Sanguinius was one of the more famous Primarchs, alleged Sons of the Emperor. Each Primarch was the genetic basis for the Space Marine Chapter led by (while they lived) and based off of them. Each Space Marine chapter is a military organization made up of a predetermined number of bioengineered warriors who are among the Imperium's first line of defense against the perils of the Warp, Xenos, mutants, and the like.

Space marines are notable for being two hundred to two hundred and fifty centimetres in height (7-8 ft), fast and agile, equipped with the very best in weaponry and clad in iconic, brightly coloured armour. They are also capable of rather more bizarre feats such as spitting acid capable of melting through steel, interfacing with their armour, and acquiring the knowledge of the dead via the consumption of their brains.

[3] Nothing makes that sort of expression in real life. Nothing.

[4] It's worth noting that due to its vast size, the Imperium is filled with as many dialects as it has worlds or regions upon those worlds. The educated learn the old language, High Gothic, that which is constant across the Imperium and has not changed since the Emperor's day. The word that Dever spat was something that originated in the Ferriclastian underbelly, and he said it with all the confidence of his native tongue. It seemed related, however, to the Malfian 'Futant' or the High Gothic 'Futuo'.

[5] Subspecies within the 'human' category

[6] Chimeras are the light tanks of the Imperium. They are aquatic vehicles, and possibly the size of two Ancient tanks put together.

[7] First rule of chainsword safety


	9. Chapter 7: The Reburial

**A/N: heavily inspired (...yeah.) by the first Chaos Legion battle in LessWrong's Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality. Go read it, that book is much better than this one. **

* * *

The refugees had left their meagre belongings to their tents and clustered in the main buildings behind barred windows and blocked doors. DeMoss could feel the vibrations of a hundred or so refugees murmuring and shuffling about through his stomach.

Earlier, from his vantage on the roof, he had watched as the bravest and most dishonest of the refugees had snuck back out of the secured buildings to pick amongst their fellows' belongings in the tents. By now, however, even the most suicidal had been hidden within.

DeMoss had laid his coat flat on the roof, had layered his waistcoat on top of it, and _still_ the absorbed heat of seven hours of sun[1] beating down on pitch-black shingles burned through, it had gone straight through his shirtsleeves and his xeno-mesh[2], and was just then slowly cooking his stomach.

A bead of sweat trickled uncomfortably down his cheek, and the grip of the mighty Nomad slipped slightly in his hands. But none of that mattered, for on the roof of the town hall, DeMoss could see what Manuellus could not: a scattered crowd of flesh-hungry mutants shambling forward toward the largest group of moving, living warm bodies.

They were only at medium range, so he could see individual details through his scope. Some wore tattered clothing, and some did not. Some had long, matted hair, and some had scars and bloodied wounds. All had rows upon rows of oozing sores, and wide, unfocused eyes.

They had been moving toward the town slowly for some time now, but there was a slight pause as every one of their roving, wandering eyes fixed on the defensive line before them.

As one, they roared and charged.

Fifty metres.

* * *

He knew before he heard it. Waves of tension rippled backwards from the front before the first cries reached his ears. They were almost human. In a way that was the worst part, how close they were to sounding entirely human, yet a part of them was entirely too savage, too animalistic, and too filled with a strange pain.

At the first distant roar, a collective shudder passed through the entire group, and Manuellus' finger played idly with the switch to activate his chainsword.

"Steady," warned Salieri from atop the centremost Chimera. Manuellus was close enough to the side of the tank that he could hear an echo – one as the Rogue Trader spoke through the coms, and one fainter to the right. "Take care of anyone who tries to rout," he muttered to the Commissar over his comm.

The tension was now almost a tangible thing. If he had wanted, Manuellus might have been able to cut through it with his sword as one slices a bowstring with a knife, watch it go whipping round till it puts one's eye out. Or something. "Thirty metres outside close range." said Salieri.

He gave a slight motion with his fingers, and Quine muttered into his earpiece, "The flanks hold position. Centre, withdraw."

His voice sounded terribly heavy as he said it.

The air rippled as men squinted through the haze and the sun. You could hear it now, a rumbling as of many feet hitting the ground. The cloud of dust rose into the sky.

There was a bit of a mechanical noise from the Chimera as it started backwards with a jolt. Manuellus could see the silhouette that was Salieri stumble, and then attempt to pretend that he hadn't.

There was a bit of a shuffling as something like a hundred men tried to walk backwards without walking into someone or tripping.

"Twenty," said Salieri.

From the roof of the town hall, DeMoss ignored his burning underbelly. His boots scraped against the shingles and his soaking shirt stuck to his back.

He could make out most of the army pretty clearly, and there were no priority targets, just waves upon waves of zombies.

He inhaled and exhaled, steadying his arms.

Salieri drew his plasma pistol and adjusted the climate control inside his carapace armour. The black ceramite surface was now hot enough to cause burns, but within, he was cool and insulated. A bead of sweat did _not_ drop into his eye, because Lord Captain Scipio Salieri did not sweat in the face of hundreds of zombies.

"Open fire," he roared.

At ten metres and closing, the Thicali threw not their fragmentation grenades at the zombies, but their flares. They landed in the centre of the horde and disappeared briefly before exploding into a blinding light.

Shifting their attention to the lights at their centre, the horde stopped suddenly. They began to turn around, and the shambling mass seemed to shrink as the carrionates clustered together over the flares. The Thicali guardsmen watched apprehensively.

From the roof on the Chimera, Salieri observed the size of the mass before his makeshift army. The cluster had apparently reached critical mass, and was no longer condensing. The carrionates at the edges of the group began to turn back towards the soldiers…

"Loose grenades!" Salieri shouted.

Two hundred pins were pulled away as two hundred fragmentation grenades sailed into the center of the clustered carrionates. Seconds later a storm of fire, sand and blood exploded out of the crowd.

"Open fire!"

An arc of red light blasted out of the formation the soldiers had formed into. The carrionates on the edges were torn to pieces as the remnants of the main group turned their attention back to the army. They shambled forward as lasbolts cut into their front.

DeMoss watched the rippling halt, watched the stumbling Carrionates. Through a painfully obvious yet ridiculously effective trick of manoeuvring, Salieri had partially encircled the Carrionate army by pulling his forces into a crescent shape. He probably hadn't even noticed that his flashing gold and shining black carapace armour drew the approaching zombies like a great armoured lure. Or perhaps that was part of the plan.

A shot rang out and one of the Carrionates fell. He grunted in satisfaction. "One…"

* * *

Mackenzie liked the fighting.

There was all just blood and lasfire and instinct, and he didn't have to bother about thinking or worrying or anything else. He could just… float. Ripples of awareness pushed past his senses, the scent of the sea, the waves washing up against the shore, blood and honour and regret.

His group advanced forward. Perks stayed well behind, killing the zombies at range. Boyd preferred to stand near the front and spray bullets from his heavy stubber.

Ryan moved ahead, and the melancholy sea was gone. Mackenzie surfaced, to find he'd killed two carrionates without really paying attention.

There was a string of swearing from behind. That meant Perks was doing fine. You had to worry when he stopped swearing. But then Powell was shouting a series of "_shit fuck shit fuck shit fuck…_" and that was no good. Powell was preferentially quiet. He said it made him less of a target.

Mackenzie twisted fluidly, moving before he realised he had decided, and knelt in the dust. He brought his lasgun to his shoulder and fired a short, sharp burst, and then another, and then another.

There were a group of zombies converging on Powell, claws raised. They really weren't terribly dangerous at range, and even up close, a soldier who kept his head could fend them off. But in large groups, they were overwhelming, and Powell got nervous when he couldn't see much.

Most of the Carrionates went down. Two or three did not. Mackenzie muttered a bad word and fired again, but missed. Too far to the left.

He fired again, and this time the shot went too far to the right. Powell blinked, looked at the downed zombies, and swung his bayonet in a low arc, skewering the zombie along the end of his weapon.

There was another burst of lasfire from somewhere behind, and the zombie slumped amid the smell of cooking flesh. Perks. Mackenzie turned and gave a short wave.

Perks cocked his head, and then lifted his lasgun. There was still work to be done.

* * *

There was a sudden surge as all the adrenaline in Manuellus's blood was suddenly unleashed, and his legs took over. He squirmed out from under the Thicali as they grabbed for him, saying something about how it wasn't safe.

Safe? They were in the middle of a war. He could hardly hear them over the pounding in his ears. He flew at the enemy. There was no plan, no feint, no strategy. He flicked his chainsword on in a whir of slashing teeth and held it out straight-armed, almost horizontal to the ground as he brought it up in a violent arc, slicing several Carrionates in a shower of blood and pus.

"_By the God-Emperor of Mankind,_" screamed Manuellus. "_IIIII haaaavvveeee the poweeerrrrr!_"

There wasn't anything on the enemy's wasted faces, but they did pause. At the very least, prey rarely raced straight toward them, and somewhere in the undecayed reptilian depths of their minds, there might have been a few instincts left.

Had they been alive, they might have called it fear. Manuellus dropped to his knees and slid in the sand several feet, swiping at the carrionates as he swept by. It hurt, hard stones in the ground digging into his knees, and his trousers were quite ruined. It didn't matter. For once in his life he felt alive, more alive than ever before.

He managed to catch the knee of one, and it went down with a thud.

He jumped upwards, driving his chainsword into the gut of an unlucky zombie. The end emerged from the back of the creature's neck. He withdrew it and swung the blood-soaked instrument in a wide arc, cutting down a nearby revenant.

The Thicali were very near, catching up amid cries of _"For the Emperor and glory!" _

The one he'd sent down earlier, leg still bleeding from its nub of a knee, was weakly crawling away. Snarling, Manuellus stomped heavily on it.

The wind blew, rustling the cloth of the banner, and Manuellus noticed he was atop a small dune, or a hillock, perhaps. The Thicali nearest him were fighting with a savage sort of vigour, lasgun and bayonette and tooth and nail.

_"__For the Emperor!" _

_"__Death to the walkers!" _

_"__Panhominae!"_

With great deliberateness, Manuellus raised the banner high in the air, and stuck the pointy end down, pinning the carrionate he'd stomped to the ground.

From somewhere far away, he heard a cheer at that, and there was a visible surge as the surrounding Carrionates shifted away from the battle line.

But there was still an army decimate. He twirled about with a surprising amount of grace and swung his chainsword in a figure-eight motion so quickly the end whistled as it moved through the air. His lower half was soaked in mud, and his upper half was covered in enemy blood. He knew he should be moving, there were sporadic bursts of lasfire all over the place, and the accursed revenants all about…

"_I am Deacon Manuellus Panhominae, of the Imperial Cult_," screamed Manuellus to the sky above, holding his sword up as if to challenge the heavens themselves. "_Manuellus of the Salieri's Shadow! Face me if you da_-"

An unexpected hand reached for his, yanking his sword arm down and pinning it against his side. He squirmed, jerked, but the thing's inhuman strength was incredible.

No matter, he had other weapons handy. Manuellus reached for his belt.

The thing reached for his other arm, but Manuellus was quick. He twisted around and slammed his temple into the Carrionate's, though it didn't have the effect it would have had on a normal human. Manuellus didn't care – the mechanical shock caused the zombie's grip to loosen a bit.

He brought a heavy boot up and squeezed it between their chests, and shoved. The missionary stumbled, caught himself, and swung the chainsword toward the zombie's torso.

The Carrionate's head suddenly exploded in a shower of blood and other fluids. It slumped, fell to its knees, and dropped to the ground.

"Twenty-eight," grunted DeMoss from the roof of the town hall.

"_That was mine, let me work_," Manuellus roared over their com link.

"Fine, sheesh," said DeMoss petulantly. "That's what you get for thanks round here."

* * *

The crowd of revenants was thinning. At first, Manuellus thought that it was because they'd scattered instinctively away from him. At first, it _was_ because they'd scattered away from him. And so he fought hand and foot, hurrying to catch the next zombie before a burst of lasfire cut it down. He hadn't the high-level, privileged position of Salieri, or even DeMoss, to watch and see the whole battle from above.

It took him a few moments, circling wildly, chainsword drawn and ready, to realise it had ended. And thus, he began the slow process of calming down. Deep breaths were the trick.

The field was empty and strewn with corpses. As they cooked slowly in the midday sun, a gentle smell rose from them, like rotting meat and sickness and death. Manuellus wrinkled his nose.

And then from the bodies of every single felled Carrionate, a stream of flies issued, flitting frantically from every available orifice. The buzzed madly, and some hit against the missionary in tiny, chitinous impacts before rushing past.

He managed to avoid screaming, if only to keep the flies from entering his mouth.

The air buzzed madly with the beating of their tiny wings, a dreadful, pervasive humming. They rose into a great, roiling black cloud several hundred feet above the battle. It expanded and contracted almost like the heartbeat of some enormous living thing for a few moments, and then scattered to the horizon, disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared.

* * *

"The priest guy is so cool," Boyd whispered, staring at the Salieri _S_ still flapping in the wind.

"Eh," said Perks. "He's not a total bitch."

* * *

[1] The days on Thical are rather longer than the days on Terra.

[2] A type of body armour


End file.
